


Elementary 16: The Baker Street Years VI (1894-1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [16]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dean in Panties, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Marriage, Gay Sex, Lake District, London, M/M, Major Character Injury, Wales, sex on a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Case 69. LAZARUS RISING (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Empty House')</b><br/>Case 70. SHARP TEETH (The Case Of The Red Leech)<br/>Case 71. HOME (The Matter Of Monsieur Dubuque)<br/>Case 72. BLOODLINES (The Addleton Tragedy)<br/>Case 73. WEEKEND AT BOBBY'S (The Case Of Colonel Carruthers And The Smith-Mortimer Succession)<br/><b>Case 74. AFTER-SCHOOL SPECIAL (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-Nez')</b><br/>Case 75. APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA (The Case Of Merridew, Of Abominable Memory)<br/><b>Case 76. JUMP THE SHARK (formerly 'The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge')</b><br/><b>Case 77. ROADKILL (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist')</b><br/><b>Case 78. PARTY ON, GARTH (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Three Students')</b><br/>Case 79. ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN (The Death Of Cardinal Tosca)<br/><b>Case 80. CITIZEN FANG (formerly 'The Adventure Of Black Peter')</b><br/>Case 81. ABANDON ALL HOPE (The Case Of Wilson The Canary-Trainer)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

I had thought that the first time I had lost Cas had been bad, when he had disappeared from my life without warning. Of course that was only God doing a rehearsal for the main event, which was to repeat the ordeal but this time with no hope that it would come to an end. Yet like the Biblical Lazarus, Cas rose to live again, and I do not think I had ever been happier.

For a country under an aging queen and facing the prospect not only of rule under her wayward son but enemies who were only gathering in strength each day, the general tenor of life in Nineties England was one of growing worry. Yet I could remain almost impervious to these concerns, as I had the man I loved more than life itself back. I did not deserve such happiness, but I was determined to keep it this time, and see us both safely through to a deserved retirement together. I could turn from my writings and look across the room, and see that impossible bed-head and bright blue eyes, then wonder how I had got so lucky.

I. Had. Cas.

Of course, I then went and nearly lost the blue-eyed genius again.....


	2. Case 69: Lazarus Rising (1894)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Empty House'.

I

In retrospect, I really only had myself to blame for almost getting killed that day. But then again, there were one or two very minor compensations….

Spring came early that year of 'Ninety-Four, although I barely noticed the rapidly greening trees and plants along the length of Baker Street. My heart was still firmly in winter, and had been for three years now. And as March the twelfth, the anniversary of that fateful day in Lawrence, Kansas, drew ever nigh, I felt a rising torpor. I dreaded having to get through yet another day full of the memories which still, sometimes, woke me screaming in my bed at night, leaving me unable to get back to sleep.

The anniversary itself started with a shock. I had always considered our landlady to be one of the most well-balanced members of the fairer sex, so I was surprised when, as I was getting dressed in my bedroom as normal, I heard Mrs. Harvelle screaming loudly from the landing. Fearing that the lady was under some sort of attack, I pulled on my trousers and rushed out barefoot, armed only with my walking-stick. My landlady was leaning back against the balustrade, looking deathly white.

“S… sorry, doctor”, she stammered. “Just…. the biggest spider I have ever seen! It fell from the ceiling and went into the cupboard so fast!”

I am not normally subject to arachnophobia, but I knew that that was a cupboard with no light-bulb, and in the interests of general species preservation, I decided to live and let live. I spent some moments with Mrs. Harvelle until she had recovered, then went back into my bedroom to finish getting dressed.

The other strange thing that morning was the matter of the key. I chanced to look over at Cas’ bedroom door, and was surprised to note that the key had been removed from the lock. Presumably Mrs. Harvelle must have taken it for some reason, though bearing in mind her recent shock, I would not trouble her as to why for now. I put on my coat, sparing my usual fond glance at my late friend’s ridiculous lumberjack hat, and remembered that I had to get some more vanilla soap – Cas’ favourite, and now mine – before leaving for the day.

+~+~+

I had three clients that day, two regular people and a new one at the daftly-named Empty House, not far from dear 221B. This had until some years back been Elm Tree House, but a series of short-term owners and some long periods between the same had led some local wag to vandalize the name-board, and the previous owners – the Basings, if I remembered correctly – had decided they liked the unusual new name, and made it official. The house had an address on Baker Street itself but was set some way back from the thoroughfare, almost a quarter of a mile up its own drive.

Mr. Penistone, presumably the latest owner, was my last call of the day. My instructions were to admit myself if no-one answered the door, as the only manservant was, the surgery had been advised, particularly hard of hearing, and might not hear my knocking. I duly entered the house, and noticed that there was one open door leading off the ridiculously huge hallway. Trying to shake off the almost certainly impossible feeling that I was being watched – I hated houses without enough people in them – I walked over to the door and knocked before entering. A man was sat in a large padded swivel chair, facing away from me.

“Mr. Penistone”, I said advancing a few paces. “Doctor Dean Winchester. You sent for me.”

The man spun round, and I noticed two things, neither of them good. The first and most obvious was the revolver he was pointing straight at me. The second took a fraction of a second longer to register, but was far more shocking. He was almost the spitting image of Doctor Kurt Metatron. It had to be his brother, Adolphus. 

I was a dead man walking.

+~+~+

“Hello, doctor.”

I stared in silent shock.

“I believe you met my half-brother, Kurt, on one occasion”, the man said, his revolver unwavering. “Indeed, I believe you were instrumental in securing his early demise. And your friends have certainly been cutting a swathe through my family of late. I had thought we were just being unlucky, until a certain communication from across the ocean.”

“Communication”, I said dully.

He smiled evilly.

“Unfortunately for you, your men were ever so slightly careless”, he said with a snide smile. “One of my brother’s aides was shot and left for dead, but he managed to reach the edge of town, where a Mr. Edgar Gaines found him and tried to save him. The man died, but not before he had communicated recent events to Mr. Gaines who, after almost three years of effort, saved enough to cross the ocean himself and find me. Only then did I realize what was afoot, and that you and your late friend were guilty of murder.”

“You’re Adolphus Metatron!” I ground out.

He smiled.

“Kurt was six years younger than me”, he said. “I look after my brothers, through thick and thin. Kurt in particular stood by me always, despite his business interests.”

“His criminal business interests”, I amended.

The man waved an admonitory finger at me. 

“Now now, doctor, you would not want to disgrace yourself in your final minutes”, he said reprovingly. “Any last requests? Apart from stepping out of the room, that is.”

“Yes”, I said bitterly. “A time machine. So I could go back to when I saved your brother’s miserable life, and break the Hippocratic Oath for the good of mankind!”

There was a brief flicker of surprise before he masked it.

“I don’t believe you”, he said with a yawn, though he kept his eye on me. “Anyway, enough of this. There’s a train leaving Victoria for Dover in just under an hour, and I fully intend to be on it, and back in France tonight. Your journey, I am pleased to say, ends here.”

Before I could think to do anything, there was the flash of gunfire. I winced – but there was no pain. Looking at Adolphus Metatron, I saw a stunned look on his face as the gun slowly fell from his hand, and an ominous red patch began to spread itself out over his pristine white shirt. 

There was a faint cough from behind me. I spun round, and saw a man’s figure outlined in the doorway, clearly holding a gun. Even in the limited light, I knew who it had to be.

“Lucifer!” I sighed gratefully. “Thank you!”

The figure moved slowly forward, edging slowly into the broad beam of light through the single, large window. First a pair of oddly familiar worn-looking brown shoes came into view, then some smart blue trousers and a familiar beige long-coat. Finally the man’s head was illuminated, and I gasped in shock.

Blue. That was the last thing I saw before passing out.

II

I was on a couch, and someone had opened my top shirt buttons so I could breathe more easily. For a moment I felt confused, but then I remembered – Mr. Penistone, alias Mr. Adolphus Metatron. The gun!

I shot bolt upright and yelped, only for two strong hands to grasp me firmly by the shoulders. I panicked only momentarily, before I remembered that evil excuse for humanity sitting there, slowly bleeding to death because…..

Oh.

My vision came back, and the blurry figure in front of me slowly resolved into something dearly familiar. Impossibly scruffy hair, stunning blue eyes, that sharp nose, those chapped lips in a hesitant smile.

“You bastard!” I yelled. 

Maybe not the best welcome back into my life I had ever given, but there he was, kneeling before me in front of the couch. Castiel James Novak, the man I had seen blown to kingdom come. Surely I was dreaming? Or was this Heaven, and I had indeed been killed in that house?

With a massive sob I fell into his arms, and he held me close to him. I could feel his heart beating, and the doctor in me diagnosed automatically that the rhythm was both a little irregular and above average speed. Though probably not as much as my own, which could not believe that this wonderful man was back in my life. I was an emotional wreck of the worst sort, but I could not bring myself to care. Three years of pent-up emotion broke me like a dam in a storm, and I was glad to break.

Finally what few shreds remained of my dignity eventually managed to convey to me that I was making a complete fool of myself, and probably ruining my friend’s shirt in the process. I pulled back, my breath still ragged, and stared at him in silence. I had never seen such a beautiful sight in all of my life.

“How?” I demanded, wondering for a moment if this was some sort of trick, and I would wake up Cas-less in my own bed again. “How on earth….. I saw it! I saw you die!”

He looked a little ashamed at that.

“Luke is waiting outside”, he said, “and he will take us the short distance back to 221B. I will explain all once we are there.”

I wiped my eyes – it was an exceedingly dusty room, I should have mentioned – and pulled myself together.

“Let’s go!” I said.

+~+~+

Cas poured out the coffee as Mrs. Harvelle withdrew, smiling to herself. I snorted as she left.

“Some spider!” I called after her.

I was sure that I heard a snigger. I looked hard at Cas, who was trying and failing to look innocent.

“I have been following your every move these past few days”, he admitted. “I meant to introduce myself to Mrs. Harvelle this morning, but she opened the door to the very place I had chosen to take shelter in. Little wonder she was surprised, though she covered it up well enough when you came out.”

“And you took the key this morning, I suppose?” I groused. “Hell, I even smelled you! You still use that vanilla soap, and that was what reminded me I have to buy some.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“You never used to like it”, he said.

I blushed fiercely.

“I.... needed something to hold onto”, I said a little sullenly.

He was kind enough not to push it. I accepted a coffee-cup from him, and gave him a thoroughly displeased look. He responded with a full-force injured puppy look that Sammy himself would have been proud of, and I sighed in defeat.

“Lawrence”, I said pointedly.

He nodded.

“It is a long story”, he said warningly.

I sat back, revelling in a main room that now had its rightful Cas back in it. My life, which had looked set to meet an inglorious end just hours ago, was now so good.

“We have all the time in the world!” I said firmly.

Our own rooms were quite dusty, too.

III

“Do you remember the case of the unpowdered nose?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Kent, back in 'Seventy-Eight”, I said. “Our first Christmas in Cramer Street.”

“You may then remember that our client, Mrs. Fulready, was the sister to the victim, Mrs. Garstang”, he went on, “and that the latter had been the midwife who helped deliver me. I know that since it is you, I do not need to ask for your discretion in this matter, as it touches on certain sensitive family secrets that, when you relate this tale, you will of course ‘gloss over’.”

I nodded, impatient for him to get on.

“What caused my sudden departure was that Mrs. Fulready came into some information that she immediately communicated to me”, Cas said. “Her late sister had bequeathed her several items from her house, including a large and rather ugly dresser, which Mrs. Fulready had consigned to a back room. In 'Eighty-Three, one of her guests saw it and told her it was a rare German piece, and would fetch a considerable sum if sold. She duly contacted several local shops, and agreed a selling price with one that included their removing it. However, whilst cleaning it in the shop, they discovered a letter taped to the inside of one of the drawers, and naturally returned it to her. When she read it, she came to me at once.”

“What was in it?” I asked.

Cas hesitated.

“After Gabriel’s birth”, he said slowly, “my father had suffered from a fit of depression as his business was going through a hard time, and to put it bluntly, my mother sought solace elsewhere. Only for a brief month before my father recovered, but as we well know, it only takes one time.”

“Oh”, I said, wincing.

“It got worse”, Cas said. “My natural father, A Russian-American businessman called Mr. Demetrius Scavenger, found out, and demanded a say in my upbringing before I was born. Except when the great day came and with Mrs. Fulready's help, my mother was safely delivered of twins!”

Suddenly I could see where this was going. My eyes widened.

“Hence my natural father returned to the United States with the elder of his sons, whom he ironically named James after his own father, whilst I was raised by my mother’s family. I have to say” he hurriedly added, “that they had never treated me differently from my siblings, and I have only ever known love and affection from Sir Charles, whom I still regard as ‘my father’ in deed, if not in blood.”

“So in 'Eighty-Three you dropped everything and rushed over to find your twin”, I said, feeling a little hurt. “Why did you not tell me? I would have understood.”

He smiled warmly at me.

“I know that you would have”, he said, “but at the time I had thoughts only for Jimmy. It was probably stupid of me, but I had a terrible fear that I might get there only to find he had died days before. When I met him, he was the spitting image of me, and we became friends at once. His – our father had died not long after marrying a Kansan, and Jimmy was living happily with his stepmother, even if they were terribly poor. I made it clear that they only had to ask for help and I would do everything I could, but they declined.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Scavenger – Jimmy’s stepmother – died six months after I got there, and Jimmy was in danger of losing the farm.” Cas frowned at the memory. “I wired my father, and we bought the whole thing for him as an investment for the family firm. I stayed there for two more years, working on the farm alongside him. I loved Kansas, but eventually I came to miss London and all the things associated with it. Baker Street. Mrs. Harvelle’s cooking. The London fog. This house. Big Ben striking the hour. Even my annoying brothers.”

He paused before adding softly, “I missed you most of all.”

I blushed.

“So I decided to come home. I was reluctant to leave Jimmy, but he was sure he would be all right, so I packed and came back. And you welcomed me back and everything was fine, until….”

“Until Doctor Kurt Metatron”, I said grimly.

“Not just him”, he said to my surprise. “At the start of 'Eighty-Nine I had another shock. Jimmy had contracted a rare wasting disease. He might last five or ten years, but even with treatment, after two or so years the decline would be both painful and inexorable. I wanted to go and be with him, but he insisted my place was here, especially with Metatron still to deal with.”

I looked at him in shock, a terrible fear gripping my heart. He gently took my hand.

“I had myself tested by several of the best doctors in the United States, and later again in England”, he said comfortingly. “Apparently it is because of a certain chemical in the blood which Jimmy had and I do not. There is no danger to me.”

I all but collapsed in relief.

“It was then that Jimmy had the idea”, Cas said. “I was totally against it, but he insisted. So I paid for his house to be completely refurbished, and amongst the ‘improvements’, they added a basement and a thick concrete floor, both reinforced.”

I nodded.

“I had told him that a time might come when, if it looked as if I would succeed in taking down Doctor Metatron, the man would try to kill me”, Cas said calmly. “Lawrence was where we planned for me to lead him.” He looked at me a little uncertainly. “Part of me did not want to drag you into danger with me, but part could not imagine doing it without you.”

I blushed. Again. This was becoming a habit.

“Once I knew for sure that Metatron's agent was following me, I went out to the house”, he said. “I am sorry I drugged you and left you behind, but I could not risk your life for the world. Jimmy was waiting for me at the house, dressed in identical clothes to my own. Letting him do that... it was one of the hardest things I have ever done!. I had had the whole house rigged so that the explosion would be all outwards, with as little damage as possible to the floor. Even so, Gabriel and Balthazar had to clear away a lot of wreckage before they could retrieve me.”

I stared at him, suddenly sombre.

“Three years to the day”, I said, trying not to sound bitter. “One thousand and ninety-six days. God alone knows how many hours. What were you doing?”

I should have known his answer.

“Protecting you.”

+~+~+

“I knew that there were six members of Metatron’s family who, because of their Italian ancestry, would seek revenge against you if once they knew that you were involved in their kinsman’s death”, he said slowly. “I am not a killer by nature, but to protect those I love, I would go far indeed.”

I shuddered, again reminded of even this great man’s potential for evil.

“I started in Italy with his cousin Luigi”, Cas went on. “I held him at gunpoint whilst I explained what had happened, and told him that he had a choice. Either he would swear on the Holy Bible that he would never harm you or anyone even loosely associated with you, in the knowledge that if he did, I would unleash the full fury of both my family and the British government against them and theirs. Or if he wished to make an issue of it, I would offer him justice any way they chose. Luigi Falconi chose a duel with rapiers, presumably unaware that it was one of the skills my father insisted I learn to a high level.”

“That was the end of 'Ninety-One. Three months later I cornered two of his brothers, Matthias and Markus, on a boat. They refused my offer and tried to rush me. I shot them both, and made it look like an accident at sea. I suppose by this time you were thinking that poor, innocent Balthazar was behind it all?”

Damn him, that was exactly what I had thought! But what else was there to think?

“I doubt Balthazar has ever been innocent, let alone poor”, I muttered defensively. He smiled at that.

IV

“I had to wait until February of ‘Ninety-Three before I could get at the other close cousin, Francis Dubarry up in northern France”, he continued. “Like the brothers, he tried to rush me. Contrary to what most people might believe, the number of victims who contrive to get shot whilst walking near a shooting range is surprisingly small!”

I smiled at that.

“I was tracking Metatron’s father Louis next, but he had a formidable bodyguard. That took me to London, and reading about it in the paper, I decided to go and see the unveiling of the new fountain in Piccadilly Circus….”

I gasped. “So that was you!” I shouted.

He nodded.

“I was lucky that I was in disguise, especially when I saw my family”, he said. “Then I saw you, and you were looking straight at me. I so wanted to go over and tell you I was alive – you have no idea how much - but I knew that if I did, I might be endangering my best friend in the world. Turning away from you then hurt me more than anything.”

I seemed to have acquired a sudden lump in my throat.

“The cold weather at the start of this year gave me the chance to finally get at Louis Metatron”, he said. “Several of his staff went sick, and I obtained a post in his kitchens. It was easy to add an undetectable poison to one of his meals, such that he would die on a particularly cold day. I offered him the antidote if he would swear not to harm you, but he would not. No-one even suspected, and I faked an illness to leave service.”

“But Adolphus Metatron evaded you”, I felt inclined to point out. 

He shook his head.

“Balthazar has been tracking him ever since his father met his end”, he said quietly. “And although we allowed him to keep his gun, not only was it rigged not to work, but the bullets were all blanks. I was not prepared to wager the life of my closest friend to capture a criminal, even one as important as this.”

“And now you are back”, I said. “Back where you belong. Oh.”

He looked surprised.

“What is it, old friend?” he asked.

“I just realized that I’m going to have to explain to the English-speaking world how you came back from the dead!”

He chuckled with me.

“It was rather dramatic having Metatron push me over the edge of the Reichenbach Falls”, he said. “Perhaps I managed to evade him at the last minute?”

I stared at him silently.

“What?” he asked, clearly bemused. 

“I want you inside of me”, I said firmly. “Here and now, in this very room.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, but I had risen and already started to remove my clothing. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, also undressing. He was still much quicker than me, damn him!

“I have waited three years for this”, I said, stepping out of my underclothes. “Three years without sex. It's been a long time for an alpha.”

He froze, and stared at me in shock. I looked back at him.

“Did you....?” I ventured.

“Never”, he said firmly. “But you... you thought that I was dead.”

“It didn't matter”, I said, removing my socks and seating myself in the fireside chair we usually reserved for guests, and which I knew would always have a special meaning for me thereafter. “I knew I would always love you, Cas, dead or alive. You're it for me.”

He too finished undressing and came over to run his hand over my chest, before leaning forward and kissing me.

“Balthazar and Gabriel were sure you would find someone else”, he said, gently tweaking my nipples. I groaned in appreciation.

“Remember the old rule”, I growled. “No mention of brothers during sexy times. Get thee inside me, O Castiel.”

I flinched as he breached me with his finger – I had not been opened up for a long time, and was incredibly tight – but soon he was scissoring me open as of old, having me groaning in ecstasy. 

“Cas!” I managed.

He must have opened my up sufficiently, for suddenly he impaled me in one swift move, reaching forward and dragging my chest to his as he too groaned in delight. 

“Too long!” he muttered.

“You always were”, I quipped. “But I can take it.”

And with that he somehow managed to change his angle of attack, even whilst still hugging me to him, and he struck my prostate full on. I let out a roar and came violently, so blissed out that even my over-sensitive cock did not register with my brain. He followed me over the edge seconds later, then kissed me fiercely, before leaving what would certainly be an impressive love-bite on my neck. 

“Claiming me already?” I sighed happily.

“You're mine”, he said simply. “Mine, Dean. Now and forever."

“I always was”, I said simply. “Now wipe us both down and help an old man to his bedroom, so that he may return the favour.”

+~+~+

In our first full case back together, Miss Bradbury requests our help to sort out a particularly unpleasant type of leech.....


	3. Case 70: Sharp Teeth (1894)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the affair of the repulsive red leech'.

I

I do not know whether he had planned it so, but my encounter with Doctor Adolphus Metatron and Cas' return happened on a Wednesday. This proved to be extremely fortunate, as it meant that I did not have to go into work until the following Monday, so we had five nights and four days to get acquainted again, and to cement our friendship. And boy, did we cement our friendship!

Cas was insatiable! After our initial encounter he took the lead most times, and I was taken time and again in every part of our little suite of rooms, even up against the window (mercifully that was in the small hours of the morning, otherwise we may well have had letters of complaint). The magnificent Mrs. Harvelle took to only making us food when we rang for it, one bell for a cold snack and two for a hot meal, then pushing a red card under the door to indicate that our food was ready outside. The woman was an angel, and wonderfully selective of hearing over those greatest of days.

Cas, on the other hand, was a demon as he took me time and again, never seeming to tire even if I was just lying down exhausted, my limbs hanging limply as he humped away inside me. It seemed he was determined to work out three years of sexual frustration on me, and kind-hearted man that I was, I generously allowed him to do just that. He repaid that kindness by being much more gentle with me on the Sunday before I had to go into work, but even so, I limped out of Baker Street in very poor shape. And I had to have a cushion on my chair at the surgery all that day.

+~+~+

Spring turned into summer, and we had an unexpected but not unwelcome guest at 221B.

“Miss Charlotta Bradbury.”

I noticed that, unusually, Mrs. Harvelle's maid Anabelle had a tray of coffee and cakes ready, which meant our landlady had known of our guest's advent. Miss Bradbury arrived in a sea of red hair – it was curled this time – and almost threw herself at Cas. I felt uneasy at once, and bit back an instinct to growl at her. Cas was mine!

“Knew they'd never keep you down, Novak!” she grinned, giving me a knowing look. “Now, bags I the jam cream finger, and I'll tell you why I'm here.”

+~+~+

“Your Lothario of a brother wants my help”, our visitor said, wiping cream away from her mouth. “One of the ministers in Roseberry's minority government has got himself into a complete mess with a foreign power, and he needs my help sorting it all out. And as I have a matter on hand which could benefit from your detective prowess, I said I'd help him if you helped me.”

Typical, I thought. Now that annoying lounge-lizard is getting Cas to work for him without even asking!

“I am at your service, my lady”, Cas said courteously. “Especially after your help in removing the foul Doctor Kurt Metatron. What do you require?”

She sat back.

“It all seems very mundane”, she admitted, “but in my business like yours, I've found it usually pays to act on my hunches. It's a case of money going missing.”

Cas looked at her shrewdly.

“Obviously there is more to it than that”, he observed. “From whom is this money disappearing?”

“That is where the fun starts”, she said. “Lady Anastasia Wellington.”

I whistled through my teeth. Ever since the great victory at Waterloo over the French back nearly eighty years ago, the Iron Duke had been a political and social force, perhaps surprisingly undamaged even by his venture into politics. When last year one of the lesser London newspapers had tried to besmirch the current duke, the victor's grandson, public reaction had been vitriolic. The newspaper's offices had been attacked, and they had eventually been forced to close down for their own safety.

“Dean?” Cas asked, breaking into my thoughts. “You are the social pages expert. Do you know of this lady?”

I did not resent the teasing tone of his voice. I was still just glad to have him there to tease me. And Miss Bradbury would have to have been blind not to have worked out just what our relationship was at this point, Even with the windows having been left open for much of the day, the place reeked of sexually-satisfied alpha. That, and the fact I still winced every time I moved on my cushion.

“She is not a descendant of the great duke”, I said, “her lineage coming from one of his older brothers. But as she is currently the only surviving member of her particular branch of the family, she has become close to the main branch, and moved from Ireland to London to years ago. I believe she lives in one of the duke's lesser London properties in Marley Square, and is about twenty years of age.”

Miss Bradbury smiled at me.

“Perhaps I should employ you in my business”, she said. “Yes, she will be twenty-one this August. And I have reason to believe that someone may be stealing from her estate.”

“How did you become aware of this theft?” Cas asked.

“I was following another client, who had dealings with the current duke's estate”, she explained. She produced a small sheaf of papers and placed it on the table. “This lists all the dealings I deemed suspicious. Unfortunately the duke allows three people access to his cousin's financial dealings, so if this is an inside job, it is the case that one or more of them is involved. Full biographies of each are included.”

Cas did not reach for the papers, but looked hard at her.

“Why?” he said at last.

“Pardon?”

“Why?” he repeated. “You can gain nothing from this, unless the family grant a belated reward for identifying a criminal in their midst. And the current duke is not known for such largesse.”

She smiled.

“Were I to pass these facts onto the family, they would be dismissed as a woman's wild ravings”, she said, not seeming the least put out by that fact. “You, supported by your esteemed biographer here, have considerable public standing, especially since your escape from the jaws of death – and yes, doctor, I am one of many who cannot wait to read how it all happened. Moreover, I think this is one of those cases where justice and the law may well require different approaches.”

“I see”, Cas said. “Yes, I will investigate this case for you, Miss Bradbury. I think it may prove to be quite interesting.

+~+~+

“I am surprised at one thing”, I admitted later, wincing at the complete mess Cas had been able to make of his area of the main room in so short a time since his return. Then again, his taking me up against his writing-table (which mercifully had proven to be stronger than it looked) was accountable for at least some of that mess. “I would have thought that Miss Bradbury would easily be able to locate the thief herself quite easily.”  
   
“Doubtless she already has”, Cas said, jotting down some figures from one document before throwing it into the growing mound beside him. I stared at him.  
   
“What do you mean?” I asked.  
   
He totalled up his figures before turning to me.  
   
“As you may guess, Miss Bradbury is in possession of many different types of information”, he said. “In particular, each datum can be categorized according to its sensitivity, and thus its value. She may be prepared to supply lower-level information to us, but before she risks letting us have access to the more important items, she wishes to be sure that we can be trusted to handle matters concerning people on this stratum of society. This is a highly sensitive case.”  
   
I frowned.  
   
“So this is by way of a test?” I said at last.  
   
“Indeed”, he said. “And one I must not fail.”  
   
II  
   
The next day, we left to investigate the three people in charge of Lady Anastasia’s financial affairs.  
   
“Does the lady live alone?” I asked as our carriage weaved through the ever-busy London traffic.  
   
“No”, Cas said. “She has a companion, a girl from her home village in Ireland who she went to school and grew up with, a Miss Eileen Flanagan. And there is also her step-brother, from her mother’s short-lived first marriage, a Mr. Sean O’Reilly; an alpha and not a blood Wellington, but still close to her. Plus of course a whole bevy of servants.”  
   
“Which of the three suspects will we look at first?” I asked.  
   
“The only other Irishman in the household, a beta called Benny Vamburgh”, he said. “Benny, not Benjamin, surprisingly. Possibly the least likely of the three, as he was comptroller of the entire Mornington Estate for some years, and only recently took over Lady Anastasia’s affairs. He could quite easily have enriched himself in his former post, so there seems little motive in his case. Though one never knows.”  
   
I nodded.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We eventually reached Highbury and Louisiana Avenue, where our target lived with his family, a wife and two daughters. Cas pulled me into a small café, where he mentioned to the waitress that he was trying to find an old friend of his father, a Mr Vamburgh. The girl did not know him, but she advised that we ask at the flower shop on the corner because (and I quote) ‘that Mrs. Allison knows everything about everyone, the nosy old bat’.  
   
Two decidedly indifferent cups of coffee later – I did not even risk the pie, as it looked both tired and soggy - we repaired to the aforementioned flower shop, where we met Mrs. Allison. I have to say that persuading her to talk about one of her fellow denizens of the area was not in any way a problem. Persuading her to stop talking…...  
   
Of course Mrs. Allison knew the Vamburghs well. Mr. Benny – apparently his mother had, for reasons best known to herself, named him after her favourite character from a Gothic story about vampires, of all things! – was a lovely man, and he worked for some rich lady in the city. Almost certainly famous, Mrs. Allison sniffed, as he most tiresomely refused to talk to anyone (i.e. her) about it. Mrs. Vamburgh was a housewife who stayed at home and looked after their two young daughters, although she did pen a monthly article for a small local paper and performed volunteer work for the local church wen asked. They lived at number twenty-three, and kept a large golden retriever called Cajun (Mrs. Allison sniffed disapprovingly at such an American name).  
   
There was one particularly interesting piece of information amidst the gossip. Mrs. Allison said that the family had recently had the front of the house repainted, and some structural work done inside just prior to that. Such things were, I knew, not cheap, and I wondered where the money to fund such things might have come from. Although Cas had a possible answer to that.  
   
“From Miss Bradbury’s files”, he said as we made our escape from Mrs Allison’s monotonous drone, “I noted that Lady Anastasia is exceptionally generous when it comes to Christmas and birthdays. Her companion, step-brother and servants all receive generous gifts on both occasions, and Mr. Vamburgh’s birthday falls only a few days after Christmas, so he would have had access to quite a sizeable lump sum.”  
   
“Oh”, I said disappointedly.  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was a short journey to our next destination, as Mr. Peyton Hafford lived in nearby Crouch Hill. This time Cas took us to a small office which, according to the brass plaque, was run by an omega by the name of Monseigneur Leonard Fitzherbert, whose office was not so much mean as positively Scrooge-like. This was surprising, as shortly before we had arrived, Cas had informed me that Monseigneur Fitzherbert owned a whole set of shops and offices in this part of London in his own name, which was highly unusual for a married omega. From his appearance, he did not seem prosperous enough to afford even a decent set of clothes.  
   
“Greetings, Mr. Novak”, he beamed at my friend. “And of course your illustrious medical scribe, Doctor Winchester. How may I be of service to you gentleman?”  
   
We both sat down.  
   
“I would of course fully understand if you are unable to comply with my request”, Cas said, “but I wish to know as much as you can tell me about. Mr. Peyton Hafford.”  
   
I must have been getting better at reading people, because even I spotted the briefest glimmer of unease on the man’s face.  
   
“The…. alpha gentleman who rents offices at number two, Findon Street?” he asked. I wondered at the pause. “He moved in just over two years ago. I am afraid I cannot tell you exactly what he does – I take little direct interest in my tenants’ actions unless they are of a criminal nature, and try to respect their privacy – but he pays his rent punctually, unlike some.”  
   
“Yet there is something about him that worries you”, Cas said shrewdly. “May we know what it is?”  
   
The man hesitated.  
   
“His hours”, he said at last. “He is rarely in his shop, from what the other tenants tell me, and the days he visits vary from week to week. I made some inquiries, and discovered that no-one ever sees people entering or leaving the establishment, which is a little odd. It is just….. he does not appear to be the sort of person who would rent a shop from someone like myself, although I am probably damning my own name in so saying.”

“Like banking, your line of business must require a certain reliance on assessing the nature of people you deal with”, Cas observed. “What does he look like?”  
   
“I have never met him”, Mr. Fitzherbert confessed. “He is extremely secretive, as some people are. His daughter Matilda I have met a few times, when she comes to my offices to pay the rent, not the man himself. She is about twenty, but looks and dresses quite a lot older, which is a little unusual. She told my secretary that her father had suffered a great trauma in recent years that had made him wish to completely withdraw from society, but that of course they have to make a living. Though she did not say how.”  
   
“Does the shop have living accommodation above it?” Cas asked.  
   
“Not as such”, Monseigneur Fitzherbert admitted. “The upstairs is rented separately, and accessed by its own entrance from Bayley Mews. The shop does have a small room at the back with a single bed in it, but that bed takes up half the floor-space. I doubt that anyone could live there for any length of time.”  
   
Cas smiled knowingly.  
   
“Thank you, Monseigneur Fitzherbert”, he said. “You have been most informative.”

Really, I wondered.  
   
“In return, may I ask whether you expect my tenant to be moving out any time in the foreseeable future?” our host asked.  
   
“At the moment, I would rate such an eventuality as quite probable”, Cas said. “And likely sooner rather than later. I promise I will keep you informed as to how my investigations proceed as regards your tenant. Good day, sir, and thank you for your time.”  
   


A coin changed hands, and we departed.

III  
   
“What makes you think that Mr. Hafford will be moving out?” I asked as we took a cab back into the city. “Do you suspect him to be the thief?”  
   
“Yes and no”, he said enigmatically.  
   
Sometimes I wondered why I had missed him. Then he edged closer to me in the cab and nuzzled the love-bite he had bitten into my neck that morning, and I sighed happily. Yes, that was why. I loved him, more than life itself.  
   
+~+~+  
   
The third of the three suspects, Mr. John Masham, lived outside the capital in Elm Park, Essex. Our cab-ride was followed by a train journey and a further cab-ride before we reached our destination. To my surprise, it was a school. And not just any school.  
   
“Mr. Masham is a teacher”, Cas explained as we waited to be shown into the headmistress’s office. “He was Lady Anastasia’s teacher in her final year in Ireland, and came over with her to England. I believe she, or at least her family, stood as referees to help secure him a job here as he was a friend of her father, which is the reason that he was one of the people entrusted with her finances.”  
   
“Possibly unjustifiably”, I added.  
   
“We shall see”, he said. He looked at me with a strange glint in his eyes. “Your presence today will be particularly valuable.”  
   
Annoyingly it was that moment that the secretary returned, so I could not press him as to what he meant. Brooding somewhat (no, I was not sulking!), I followed him into Miss Haverstock’s study.  
   
Miss Ivy Haverstock was a Character, and I use the capital quite correctly in this case. Her school was justly famous; people miles around were desperate to get their daughters into St. Faith’s. It was not just the quality of the education, but that everyone knew she ran a tight ship. Indiscipline on behalf of any pupil was grounds for immediate ejection and loss of the rest of that term’s fees, never mind the social stigma that came with such an action. And money or status did not help you get in to start with; parents had to sit through an interview with Miss Haverstock first, and if she did not like you (as one minor royal couple had found out to their shock the year before), your child did not get in. And that was before she interviewed the actual child!  
   
I felt certain (and possibly a little smug) that this was one member of the fairer sex upon whom Cas’ charms would fall like the proverbial seed on stony ground. However, I did not have the opportunity to test that theory, as the moment she saw me enter behind Cas, her face lit up.  
   
“Doctor Winchester!” she beamed.  
   
I immediately felt nervous. Had I treated her or one of her relatives at some time in the past, and if so, should I be remembering her in some way? Fortunately Cas came to my rescue.  
   
“Miss Haverstock is a great admirer of your works, doctor”, he said with a knowing smile. “Thank you for agreeing to see us at such short notice, madam.”  
   
“Not at all”, she said. “Your fame resounds across London, and the capital is agog to hear how you escaped from the clutches of Death himself.”  
   
“I am sure the good doctor can be persuaded to forward you a signed copy of the work before it reaches the general public”, Cas said. “I am here today to ask you about an employee of yours.”  
   
Her face darkened.  
   
“Mr. John Masham”, she said. “Indeed!”  
   
Men have probably been hung for less than was in that single, damning word. She took a deep breath.  
   
“Normally I would not even have considered employing a” – she took another breath before uttering the awful word – “a Man for a post in my little school. But Mr. Masham is a beta, his references were excellent, and I had another teacher have to withdraw because her husband insisted she should not have a paid post. Some people these days!”  
   
I suppressed a smile at the scorn in her voice.  
   
“Hence I decided to give him a trial for one term. Initially, things went very well, but of late….”  
   
“What has happened to concern you? “ Cas asked. “Rest assured, the doctor and I will be discreet in any inquiries we may choose to pursue in this area.”  
   
She nodded.  
   
“He is becoming unreliable”, she said, sounding almost angry. “As I am sure you gentlemen appreciate, teaching is a profession with certain set hours, but my staff are expected to put in many more hours of their own time for the good of the children.”  
   
(In fairness, I should add at this point that Miss Haverstock’s school was known to pay its staff well above the standard rate for teachers, an unusual practice in education of the time).  
   
“And Mr. Masham has not been fulfilling these requirements?” Cas asked.  
   
“He has not”, she said sorrowfully. “It is fortunate that I kept him on a trial contract, which expires this summer. The way things stand, I am not inclined to renew it.”

Cas thought for a moment.

“If the case I am investigating turns out as I expect”, he said, “I feel compelled to advise you that Mr. Masham is likely to either withdraw fully to concentrate on certain other matters that will require his attention, or he will once more give you his full focus. I would expect a resolution of matters quite soon, most likely in around one week's time.”

“Thank you”, she smiled.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We said goodbye to Miss Haverstock (my having confirmed that I would indeed send her a signed copy of my ‘Lazarus work' when it was complete), and returned to Baker Street, tired after a long day’s travelling.  
   
“What next?” I asked, after a delicious dinner of kippers from the ever-dependable Mrs. Harvelle.  
   
“I wish to talk with one Miss Jane Grey, a maid at Lady Anastasia’s house”, he said. “She was Wednesdays off, and always travels down to visit her grandmother in Putney. Balthazar says that she dines each time at the Rhubarb And Custard Restaurant in the High Street there, so we shall intercept her and obtain a flavour for the household.”  
   
“You suspect Miss Flanagan or Mr. O’Reilly?” I asked, surprised.  
   
“I suspect everybody”, he said flatly.  
   
I chuckled at that.  
   
IV  
   
A few days later we decamped across London to the border with Surrey, and the small town of Putney. The Rhubarb And Custard was far better than its name had implied, being situated on the banks of the Thames, and we ordered some coffees before making ourselves comfortable.  
   
It was about half an hour before a plain-looking young girl in a pale blue dress entered, and ordered a cup of tea and a single cake. Typically she sat about as far away from us as was physically possible. Cas gestured to me, and we got up and walked over to her.  
   
“Miss Jane Grey?” Cas said politely.  
   
The girl looked up in surprise, and an anxious expression crossed her face.  
   
“I am the consulting detective Mr. Castiel Novak, and this is my friend and associate, Doctor Dean Winchester”, he said, his voice low and even as if he felt any sudden movement or exclamation might have startled her. “May we be allowed to join you?”  
   
She clearly recognized his name, and…. oh no! There it was again, the simpering look he got from half of our species. He was old enough to be her father! Honestly!

(Cas did not look at me because I may have inadvertently growled).  
   
“I read in the newspapers of your great return”, she said, her eyes alight. “And you wish to talk to me?”  
   
She sounded frankly incredulous. We seated ourselves at her table, and Cas ordered a plate of cakes. He notably waited for the waitress to return with them before beginning.  
   
“I wish to have your opinion on certain matters involving your place of work”, he said carefully. “Of course, I am fully aware of your loyalty to your employer, but it is she over whom I am concerned. I understand she has both a friend and a relative living with her, and in connection with a rather delicate matter that I am investigating – I am certain that I can rely upon your discretion in this matter – I would truly value your opinion on that lady and that gentleman.”  
   
She visibly preened.  
   
“Well, Mr. O’Reilly is certainly a gentleman”, she said, blushing a little as she spoke. “Handsome as the devil, that’s what Miss Flanagan calls him, but a perfect gentleman in his manners. And not at all grasping like some as I could mention; my lady wanted to make a settlement on him because he has no money of his own, but she had to work really hard to get him to accept it.”  
   
But not hard enough, I thought as I filled my notebook. I caught the slightest twitch of Cas’ lips, and knew he was thinking much the same.  
   
“Now Miss Flanagan”, and the maid’s tone changed abruptly at this point, “she’s another kettle of fish entirely. The Red Leech, we call her, because that's her favourite colour, as well as that of her hair. Always wanting money for this dress, that new pair of gloves, or the other ticket to the theatre. She has a small income of her own, so I'm told, but she lives well above her means.”

Miaow, I thought,  
   
“I see”, Cas said. He hesitated. “My next question is a little indelicate perhaps, so I will fully understand if you prefer not to answer. Would you say that Lady Anastasia herself is demanding of these two?”  
   
That clearly caught the maid out, and I could see her trying to frame an answer that would defend her mistress.  
   
“They do get days to themselves, sir”, she said, a little defensively. “Not regular days like the staff do – Lady Anastasia is exceedingly generous to us servants – but provided my lady does not need them for something special, she does not mind if they are not with her. And she never takes them with her when she goes to see the duke.”

“Does His Grace ever visit the house?” Cas asked.

“I only know that he came the once, sir”, she said. “Florrie – the between-maid, and a terrible gossip – claimed they had argued because the duke said she had sharp teeth, which I thought was odd.”

“'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child'” I quoted. “King Lear, Shakespeare's play.”

Miss Grey looked at me, clearly impressed. I may or may not have preened a little.

“Lady Anastasia does like the good things in life”, she admitted.  
   
“Hmm”, Cas said, apparently deep in thought. “One final question, if I may be allowed. In your opinion, does your lady spend more time with the lady or the gentleman?”  
   
“Oh, definitely Miss Flanagan, sir”, the maid said firmly. “No doubt about it.”  
   
Cas smiled, and called the waitress over.  
   
“Thank you for your time and patience, Miss Grey”, he said. The waitress will box up the cakes you do not wish to eat, so you can take them with you. I am sure I need not impress on you the abdolute and urgent need that you not discuss with anyone at the house the matters which we have discussed today?”  
   
“Of course, sir!” she said, looking shocked.  
   
+~+~+  
   
I waited until we were in our cab heading back to Baker Street before I said it.  
   
“You do know that she will tattle to every other servant in the house that she has had coffee with the famous Mr. Castiel Novak?” I said.  
   
“And his fellow medical scribe”, Cas chuckled. “Indeed. It is one of the things I am counting on.”  
   
I stared at him in confusion.  
   
“Are we going to the house?” I asked. He shook his head.  
   
“In the circumstances, it would be better for Lady Anastasia if we broke the bad news to her away from the house”, he said. “We shall invite her to Baker Street.”  
   
“But are you not afraid that the criminal will escape?” I asked.  
   
“Somehow I do not think that is an option”, he chuckled.  
   
+~+~+  
   
The next day, however, seemed to prove him wrong. Late that afternoon, we received a telegram from Monseigneur Fitzherbert, informing us that the few personal items in Mr. Hafford’s offices had been removed, and that his daughter had reported him missing to the local police, as he had not returned home the previous night. In the days that followed, strenuous efforts were made to locate him, but all that was found was a ring of his, close to the soon-to-be-opened Tower Bridge. It seemed he had either fallen into the river or been attacked, and his body thrown in subsequently.  
   
Cas’ inquiries yielded one other piece of information during this time, though I did not see the significance of it. Although she would not come into control of her own finances until she was full thirty years of age, Lady Anastasia had on reaching eighteen years of age been allowed to choose one financial adviser for herself, whilst the current duke had chosen the other two. Mr. Hafford, who had at the time been a minor landowner near her ancestral lands in Ireland, had been her choice. Cas seemed pleased at this for some reason, though I did not see why.  
   
V  
   
It was May when Lady Anastasia Wellington finally came to visit us in Baker Street, accompanied by Miss Eileen Flanagan. The two girls bore a passing resemblance to each other especially in the red hair they shared, though Miss Flanagan was taller and thinner. Cas bade them both sit down, and smiled in welcome.  
   
“Ladies”, he said politely, “I would like to tell you of a certain case that has come to my attention lately, in which I think you would find something of interest. It concerns fraud and theft at the very highest level of English society, and crimes for which, should the case ever come to court, at least one of the perpetrators would be guaranteed time in jail.”  
   
I noted that Miss Flanagan looked decidedly nervous, but Lady Anastasia was as cool as someone of her class should have been. She nodded graciously, and Cas continued.  
   
“It concerns a certain high-born lady who, much to her chagrin, is prevented from accessing the full wealth of her estate until she reaches what she considers a great age”, Castle said. “However, she is as resourceful as certain members of her family have proven in the past, and finds a way past these obstacles. Being allowed to appoint one of her financial guardians, she persuades a close friend to partake in her ruse.”  
   
“Most interesting”, Lady Anastasia said, whilst her friend's face was increasingly matching the colour of her hair. “Pray continue.”  
   
“The guardian chosen by the lady does not, in fact exist", Cas went on. "However, his character is created by the two ladies to an extent that his existence is believed. The friend, ostensibly acting on her newly-acquired father’s behalf, rents a small office some distance from the house and places a few items in it. She makes sure that the rent is paid on time, and all proceeds well. By some astute forging of documents signed by the non-existent guardian, she and the lady who planned the scheme are successful in slowly removing funds from her estate so the lady can live in a style she considers fitting, even if she is robbing her future to pay for her present.”  
   
Lady Anastasia nodded, but this time said nothing.  
   
“However, the lady then learns, to her alarm, that a maid in the house has been questioned by a consulting detective”, Cas said with a smile. “She acts quickly. The non-existent financial guardian disappears, apparently drowned if we are to believe a ring identified by his ‘daughter’. They must lie low for a while, but surely the fuss will soon die down, and then a further fake guardian can be invented the the ramp continued.”  
   
Lady Anastasia sighed heavily.  
   
“Such a case would require a strong degree of proof against so noble a lady in society”, she said, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.  
   
“Proof such as the friend being identified by the landlord who rented the building to the financial advisor, even though there was no way they could have met?” Cas asked. “Proof such as the friend’s fingerprints in that office? Proof that a certain Mr. Peyton Hafford is actually alive and well, having emigrated to the United States four years ago, and is prepared to provide by telegraph a sworn statement to that effect? Proof such as Mr. John Masham has been acquiring of late, to the detriment of his own job as he works for the estate you value so little?”  
   
Her eyes narrowed in anger.  
   
“That money is mine!” she hissed. “My family have no right to withhold it from me!”  
   
Cas sat back.  
   
“I intend to inform His Grace of my findings”, he said firmly. “Doubtless he will take his own measures to curb your excesses, Lady Anastasia. You, Miss Flanagan, I would expect him to dispatch back to your native Ireland, so you are as far away from your partner in crime as possible.”  
   
Lady Anastasia shot to her feet.  
   
“Eileen!” she barked. “Come!”  
   
She swept out of the room in a flurry of crinoline, and was gone, her friend scurrying after her. I stared at Cas in amazement.  
   
“The ‘Red Leech’ was in fact plural”, he said with a smile. “But perhaps one day, you will be able to publish this case.”  
   
I really hoped so. The thought of laying open that greedy scion of a noble house to public scrutiny was a most pleasant one.

+~+~+

Next, a case which led to my returning home to rural Northumberland, where a case of the dead body next door came with diplomatic repercussions.....  
 


	4. Case 71: Home (1894)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as ‘the matter of Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris police’.

I  
   
I gave some serious thought before choosing to include this case amongst the one hundred and twenty in the expanded Castiel canon. Two things decided me in favour at the last; a request from the daughter of the now late Doctor Winchelsey, and the fact that it took place not only in my native Northumberland, but just a few miles from my home village of Belford, to which I had not returned since leaving it for London, some (ahem!) years ago.  
   
Over the years, my contacts with the people I had known in my home county had dwindled to just two; the aforementioned Doctor Thaddeus Winchesley, who had retired a few years back and moved to a cottage in the fishing port of Seahouses not far from Belford, and the Reverend Henry Potter, who had been exceedingly helpful after my father’s death considering he had taken over his post not two weeks prior, and for his sins was still vicar of Belford at the time of these events. There had been some scandal about ten years back when he had married an omega nearly a decade younger than himself, the Church of England position on priests marrying omegas being, like rather too much of their modern doctrines, confused at best and incomprehensible at worst. Fortunately the reverend’s new mate, Alan, had quickly won over the locals, and all was soon well.  
   
+~+~+  
   
I had been thinking of Doctor Winchelsey only the other day, that warm June morning, because I had read in the paper that work had started on connecting his village and neighbouring North Sunderland to the railway network with one of the modern ‘light railways’, where less exacting rules made such schemes more practical. He had not mentioned it in his last letter a few months earlier, although since the line had been authorized for two years before work had started, I suppose it was hardly news anymore. And as if proof that thinking of someone makes them come into your life in some way, a further letter had arrived that morning, with some rather startling news.  
   
I had read the letter twice, then locked it away in my draw. I did not want Cas to know about it, as he had only just come off a case for the government which, regrettably, had meant prolonged meetings with his tiresome brother Balthazar. How Cas refrained from slapping the leering lounge-lizard in the face every time we met him, I do not know; it said wonders for my friend’s self-restraint. The matter had visibly irritated him however, and I had felt compelled to let him work his frustrations out on me most evenings.

All right, I did not need that much compulsion!  
   
+~+~+  
   
At dinner that evening Cas told me that Balthazar’s case was (finally!) sorted, and he could devote himself to more important matters. I would deny that a certain part of my anatomy sprang to attention when he said that, but it did, and I was glad I was seated at the table. Yet his smirk told me that he knew full well just what I was thinking, ad the effect he was having on me. Damnation!  
   
I had managed to calm down (in both senses) an hour or so later, and was sat reading on the couch when he came and joined me.  
   
Naked! Stark, staring naked! I let out a whimper.  
   
“Tell me about your letter”, he said. My eyes boggled.  
   
“What?” I squeaked. “What letter?”  
   
“The one with a Berwick postmark that was in the mail this morning”, he said, folding his legs up Indian-style, and focussing my eyes only further on matters slightly further south. I fought for those things – what were they? - oh yes. Words.  
   
“Just a letter from home”, I said feebly.  
   
He looked coolly at me, whilst casually rubbing his growing erection. I did not tremble. Much. And I held out for an impressive twenty seconds before blabbering into speech.  
   
“Doctor Winchesley – he was the one who certified me as a sigma when I was fifteen – he’s moved to Seahouses, on the coast”, I blustered. “He has one of two cottages just outside the town, and three days ago, the occupant of the other cottage was found dead. Murdered.”  
   
“And he wishes us to come and investigate the matter?” Cas asked, stroking himself faster as he spoke and letting out a most unfair moan of his own. I tried to stop my heart beating out of my chest at the glorious sight.  
   
“Yes!” I managed, in a voice at least an octave higher than usual.  
   
“There”, he smiled. “That was not so difficult, was it, Dean? That should be the second most important matter for you to attend to.”  
   
“Second?” I was almost proud I could manage a words of two syllables, given that most of the blood flow to my upper brain had been triaged off to my lower one. He stood up and walked blithely over to my door.  
   
“Do I really have to tell you the first?” he quipped, slowly pushing the door open.  
   
Reader, he did not have to tell me the first.  
   
+~+~+  
   
The following day we adjourned to King’s Cross Station for the Special Scotch Express (the train later famous as the Flying Scotsman), which would take us as far as Newcastle-upon-Tyne. There we would have to change to a slower local train as far as Chathill, from where the line to Seahouses was being built. The recent Races To The North had improved services between London and Scotland immensely, and I felt this not just in the fast pace with which we were whipped to the town of the Geordies, but the sharp contrast in the ambulatory pace of our second, local train. I knew that this train, for Berwick-on-Tweed, would continue to call at Belford, my old home village, and I wondered if there would be time or reason for me to call in either there or at Sammy's house in Berwick before our return.  
   
It was surprisingly cold when we finally alighted at Chathill, bearing in mind it was Thursday the seventh of June, two weeks before Midsummer’s Day, with a bracing wind sweeping in from the North Sea. I remembered going to sit and stare out at that sea from Bamburgh when I was younger, and dream of faraway lands and the wonderful adventures I would have there when I grew up. Now of course I was a man, and I had put away such childish dreams.

I glanced at the man beside me, and smiled. There were, it could be said, some compensations! There was no-one about on the exposed platform, so I took the opportunity to hug Cas, who looked surprised but pleased.  
   
“Just thanking you for making my dreams come true”, I said, silently thinking that he would be quite right to think me being weird.  
   
“Maybe later”, he grinned as he sauntered off.  
   
How the blazes could I get an erection when I was this cold?  
   


II  
   
The drive to Seahouses and my friend’s house was a pleasant one, and I could smell the salt in the air as we rolled into the small village. To Victorians of course the place was synonymous with the famously brave Grace Darling, who risked her life to row out to rescue survivors from the wrecked Forfarshire back in ‘Thirty-Eight. That ship had been wrecked on the Farne Islands, visible in the distance on this fine if cold day.

Our carriage took us to the Olde Ship Inn which, despite a tendency to overdo the nautical theme – I did not think a lifebelt on the wall in my room was really necessary – was a warm and welcoming place. We spent a short time settling in before coming down to see Doctor Winchelsey, whom I had telegraphed the evening before, and who had arranged to meet us at the inn.  
   
Thaddeus Winchesley was seventy-two at the time, a weathered alpha who looked very tired, I thought. Of course I remembered him in his early fifties from when I had left Belford for that fateful trip to Oxford in 'Seventy-Four, two decades ago.  
   
Twenty years! Damnation, I had counted after all!  
   
“I am thankful that you have come, Dean”, he smiled. “The whole sequence of events has been most trying, and I have the distinct feeling that there is more to what had happened than I have so far perceived. I hope your clever friend can bring his wits to bear on the matter.”  
   
“I shall certainly do my best”, Cas promised. “Let us start with the sequence of events as they have occurred, our mutual friend can write them down in his inimitable scrawl” (I glared at him for that!) “and we shall see what we shall see.”  
   
Doctor Winchelsey sipped his beer and began.  
   
“I moved here when I retired seven years ago”, he began. “As I told you, Dean, I had some problem finding a replacement for the village; young Williams was a flibbertigibbet if ever there was one, and Talbot – well, after the Smithson business, he had to leave town rather quickly. Fortunately Matthews proved a good man, and with the money I got from selling my practice to him, I purchased Number One, Acacia Cottage.”  
   
“Acacia Cottage is two houses, one and two, and is quite isolated from the village”, he continued. “It is only a quarter of a mile, but the road to it twists and runs through a small wood, so it is very private. And the views are magnificent. I was very happy there – until three years ago.”  
   
“You never said anything”, I pointed out.  
   
“You had more than your fair share of troubles then”, he reminded me. “It happened the February that you were somewhat engaged with a certain Doctor Metatron, and in your last letter beforehand you sounded so sad that I did not wish to add to your worries.”  
   
“What happened?” Cas asked, tactfully side-stepping my still painful recall of that terrible time. I was grateful for that.  
   
“Maggie Henderson died – she lived in the other half of Acacia Cottage – and her widower John went to live with his daughter down in Amble. I considered buying their house and letting it out for income, but Quentin – Mr. Bystone, the estate agent – told me that he had already had an offer on it, for some way above the asking price. I was disappointed, but looking forward to seeing my new neighbour. Which, as it turned out, I did not.”  
   
“Eh?” I said, coherent as ever.  
   
“Jacques Ballard was apparently a French exile”, Doctor Winchelsey explained. “He left his native land late last year, for reasons that were never fully explained to anyone, and settled in this out of the way place again for reasons unknown. He clearly had enough money to support himself for a considerable time, as he was only approximately forty years of age, according to my cleaner Lily who saw him but the once. He had one manservant, a morose man called Piers. I think they had food and other supplies mostly sent up from the shop in the village, although I know, because they left it outside the one time, that he did receive a parcel from France.”

“When was that?” Cas asked at once.

“Two weeks ago”, the doctor replied. “As I said, the cottages are isolated so there was no need for him to come down to the village, but Ben, who does some occasional gardening for me, did see him briefly the weekend before last, four days after the delivery.”

Cas thought about matters for a while.

“Who discovered the body?” he asked eventually.

“He had a visitor on Tuesday”, the doctor said. “A Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris Police. He arrived before the first train of the morning reached Chathill, which was odd; I presumed he must have stayed somewhere nearby and walked or rode in. I was out in my garden – it was a fine day for once, and I was reading – when I saw him come up the path.”

“I think I need physical descriptions of your neighbours”, Cas cut in. 

“Mr. Jacques Ballard was around forty years of age, rather rotund in figure for an alpha, dark hair balding rapidly, and although I should probably not speak ill of the dead, he had a somewhat pinched face. His servant, Piers, was a bit younger, though not much, and an alpha, which is unusual for a servant. He had receding fair hair and was fairly slim, I recall. His visitor, Monsieur Dubuque, was around thirty years of age, again an alpha, and with a lion's mane of fair hair. I only saw him going up the path; I do not know if he saw me as I was sat under the tree.”

“Monsieur Dubuque has gone?” I asked, surprised.

“When I tell you what happened next, you will see that we could hardly detain him”, the doctor said with a smile. “So to continue. Monsieur Dubuque entered the house, and seconds later I heard a shout from inside. I hurried round – I think it took me less than a minute to get from my garden to their door – and as it was open I went straight in. I noticed that the back door was left open, but my attention was more drawn to the fact that Mr. Ballard was lying dead in the front room, and a quick examination suggested that he had been dead for some considerable time, hours at least. I presumed, therefore, that Monsieur Dubuque had killed him and then fled, though of course I have no idea as to why.”

“The house was empty?” Cas asked.

“Piers had the day off, and had gone up to Berwick”, Doctor Winchesley explained. “That was the other odd thing, though. Constable Perkins took my statement the same day, but he came to me yesterday and told me that not only were they letting the manservant go – which I suppose was fair enough, given he could not have done it – they had also been told in no uncertain terms to drop the investigation.”

“And this Piers promptly disappeared, I bet!”, I muttered. 

Cas pressed his fingers together and thought for a few moments.

“What was the last time anyone saw Mr. Ballard prior to Tuesday?” he asked at last. 

“That was when Ben saw him, over a week ago”, the doctor answered. “Of course I could hear them both through the wall, but I did not see them as such.”

“Thank you for inviting us onto this case, Doctor Winchelsey”, Cas said gravely. “I rather suspect that there is more to it than meets the eye. We shall have to make one or two inquiries in the area, but I believe that we may be able to achieve at least a limited resolution of matters.”

+~+~+

I knew somehow that this case worried my friend, for reasons he had not yet divulged. I was content to wait until he was ready to unburden himself onto me. We went for a walk along the harbour before turning in for the night, and I smiled as his hair somehow contrived to get even more of a mess in the strong wind blowing in from the North Sea.

“We shall had to undertake some travel by carriage tomorrow”, he said quietly, his words almost being blown away in the wind. “We may even go as far as your old home town, Dean.”

Cas knew, of course, that my memories of Belford were mostly negative ones. The deaths of both my parents, especially that of my mother, and the difficult years after I was confirmed as a sigma, had made selling up and leaving the place for a new life in London relatively easy. I knew, because Sir Charles had been kind enough to tell me, that my old family house had been sold to a businessman who worked in Newcastle but wished to raise his family in the country, and that he had significantly upgraded the place.

Perhaps I was ready to face my past. Especially now I was more certain about my future. It lay with the man beside me, whom I would never let go.

III

The following day, Cas went out early to send a telegram from the post office. He then hired a carriage for us, and directed the driver inland. We seemed to be heading back to Chathill Station again, but we turned off and instead found ourselves at Newham, the next station up the line towards Belford and Berwick-on-Tweed. Cas had a brief conversation with the stationmaster there, but it seemed to have yielded nothing, and we continued on over the railway line and made our way to the station after that, Lucker. Again Cas' efforts seemed to meet with failure, and we headed west to pick up the Great North Road. A few miles on, and we reached a familiar road junction. Belford village lay some little way ahead of us, but we took the right turn and headed down to the station, where Cas had his third conversation of the day. I meanwhile walked the short distance from the station to my old home.

Sir Charles had understated the 'improvements' to the old place, but I had to admit, it certainly looked better than when Sammy and I had lived there. Everything looked well cared for, and a visibly pregnant omega in his thirties was sat in the garden, reading but at the same time keeping an eye on two of his charges, who were seemingly trying to push each other out of the apple-tree. As I watched, his alpha mate came out and kissed him, then went over to play with their sons.

I sighed. The past was, I supposed, another country. But I was glad that the old place had found good people to look after it.

+~+~+

I returned to the station to find Cas waiting for me, and from the smile on his face, I new that this time he had been successful. Typically, he remembered that I might have wished to call on the Reverend Potter at the vicarage, and we travelled into the village, where we were fortunate enough to catch him. And his thoughtfulness brought an unexpected bonus when the vicar was able to add to our knowledge of the case.

“Of course I read about the murder”, he told us. “Indeed, I had to inform the local constabulary that the murderer may have been here. Fortunately they were able to assure me that I was wrong.”

“How so?” Cas asked.

“The morning it happened, there was a foreigner who came to the church to pray”, the vicar said, polishing his round glasses as he spoke. “Middle-aged man, and had a lion's mane of fair hair. All he said to me was 'Reverend', but I thought I detected a French accent. However, Constable Plod visited me and said that Monsieur Dubuque, who matched that description, had travelled up from Newcastle, so would hardly have gone past several stations and then had a longer ride to his destination. It was probably just a coincidence.”

(Yes, Belford's village policeman at the time was indeed Constable Phineas Plod, whom even the vicar had gone so far as to describe as 'a spineless, useless lummocks'. An immensely charitable over-estimation of his abilities, from what I later heard from other sources).

“I dislike coincidences”, Cas said crisply. “They happen far less than people suppose.”

“But how could a man be in two places at once?” the vicar objected.

“Many things are possible”, Cas said. “I rather fear that this will prove to be one of the cases that my medical friend cannot write up in the foreseeable future, but I hope to have it solved shortly.”

I stared at him in astonishment. How?

+~+~+

I have mentioned before that Cas' brother Balthazar was not always as helpful as he expected my friend to be. However, this time the information Cas had requested was waiting for us back at the hotel in Seahouses. Cas read it and smiled.

We should go and see Doctor Winchelsey after dinner”, he said. “I am sure he would like to know who murdered the man next door.”

“He is not the only one!” I said, pouting.

“You know what happens when you pout, Dean”, he growled. 

My trousers suddenly became very tight. He smirked at me, then ambled off to sort out dinner, whilst I fought for composure.

As usual, I lost.

+~+~+

“I told the doctor that he would be unable to write up this particular case”, Cas began as we sat with Doctor Winchesley in his garden. It was a fine June evening, though the wind was still contriving to make an even bigger mess of Cas' hair. “And with such a matter of international importance, one must take care not to trample on diplomatic sensibilities.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“International?” the doctor asked.

“Indeed”, Cas said. “I presume that you have read of the disgraceful Dreyfus Affair in France late last year?”

We both nodded. Although it is little spoken of today, the Dreyfus Affair was one of those 'slow burn' scandals, which had indeed begun the previous year. It had arisen when Captain Alfred Dreyfus, an army officer of both Alsatian (i.e. the province recently lost to Germany) and Jewish descent, was accused of treason. Bearing in mind the chronic instability of the Second Republic, those in power were always looking about for some distraction to throw to the common people, and sending a member of an unpopular minor religion to a remote island off Africa for betraying his country had presumably seemed ideal fodder. Yet even then, barely six months into what would eventually turn into a twelve-year scandal and threaten to rip France apart, there were warning signs that what had seemed a clear-cut conviction was anything but.

“It is my belief”, Cas said, “that Jacques Ballard was in possession of certain evidence which threw further doubt on the conviction of Captain Dreyfus. I do not know what that evidence was, but clearly the man feared for his life. Why else would he not only abandon his homeland, and come to this wild spot miles from anywhere in England? And somewhere with coastal access, so further flight could be arranged if necessary?”

“Inevitably, it does become necessary. Every government of any size has its Balthazars, people who will do dirty work 'for the good of the country', up to and including assassinating enemies of the state. My brother confirmed my suspicions that one such person, travelling under the name Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris Police, left France on Sunday, destination England.”

“Sunday?” the doctor asked, surprised.

IV

“Sunday”, Cas confirmed. “Monsieur Dubuque, as we shall have to continue to call him since we do not know his real name, arrives in London on that day. Since he thinks that he is not expected, he takes an express to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, booking a first-class ticket – at the French government's expense, naturally – in his own name. Once there, he arranges to charter a boat the following morning, and spends what he does not know will be his last night on earth.”

I stared at Cas in surprise.

“However, Mr. Ballard and his manservant have not gone to all this trouble without taking certain precautions. I would wager that he had his own supporters in the French government, who alerted him to the impending danger. The two make their preparations, and are ready for the attack.”

“The following morning, Monday, Monsieur Dubuque endures what is probably a choppy journey up the Northumberland coast, and is deposited on a beach near to his destination. It is a short walk to the mercifully isolated cottage, and he probably waits some time so that he can enter unnoticed.”

“On Monday?” Doctor Winchelsey asked, clearly confused. “But I saw him go in on Tuesday.”

“Actually you did not”, Cas said with a smile. “Monsieur Dubuque enters the cottage late on Monday, and is immediately set upon and chloroformed by the two men who were waiting for him. He is then kept under; indeed, he will never be allowed to regain consciousness again.”

“From the physical descriptions you gave me, doctor, I would wager that it was the manservant Piers who played the part of Monsieur Dubuque for the next twenty-four hours. Because it has to be established that the man was alive on Tuesday, and that neither of the two occupants of the cottage could have killed him. Piers goes to Belford, where he spends a night in one of the hostelries there as Monsieur Dubuque. I am sure that the police have already established which one.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because of their otherwise incomprehensible disinterest about a murder committed on English soil”, Cas said. “On Tuesday morning Piers changes briefly back to himself to visit the railway station and purchase a return ticket to Berwick, as he has his own alibi to establish. He then becomes Monsieur Dubuque again and goes to the local church to pray, making sure he is seen by the vicar. He next hires a horse to ride to Seahouses. He makes sure that you, doctor, see him walk up the path to what is his cottage.”

“His master is ready inside, and seeing his ally approach, finally gives his unwelcome quest his quietus. Mr. Ballard leaves very quickly by the back door, and after yelling in shock, his manservant follows him, leaving a dead body for you. Doctor Winchelsey, to find.”

“I don't believe it!" Doctor Winchelsey said.

“Jacques Ballard and his manservant make good their escape", Cas continued, "whilst the initial investigations by the English police state that Jacques Ballard lies dead. It does not take those in authority in London long to work out the Dreyfus connection, and they quickly understand that this matter must not be investigated any further. The French, for their part, believe that they have silenced a dangerous enemy, something which they will one day discover to be not the fact.”

“They played me for a fool”, Doctor Winchelsey said dully.

“You had no way of knowing”, Cas said comfortingly. “You were an unwilling dupe, who could have no way of knowing that what he saw was not what he actually saw."

“Disgusting!" I muttered, still shocked at all this. “It's still attempted murder, and on another nation's soil. How could they hope to get away with it?”

“They almost did”, Cas pointed out.

+~+~+

I was still feeling shocked when we left Seahouses the following day, and our carriage rolled through the leafy Northumberland lanes back to Chathill Station. I was also feeling a little down because my hopes of seeing Sammy before we returned to London had been scuppered by a reply to the telegram I had sent yesterday, which told me that he, Jessica and the children were going to Edinburgh for a week's holiday, starting today. I walked out onto the cold up platform and sighed heavily.

“I know something that will make you feel better, Dean.”

I would like to point out that the noise I emitted then was a quite manly squeak. Using a broad definition of the term 'manly'. And now I was going to forever associate this lonely platform with Cas-incited erections, damn it!

“How?” I muttered, moving instinctively closer to the human heater.

He took my hand, and I felt a railway ticket being pushed into it. Looking down, I saw that Cas had purchased a first-class one for me. Except....

“Your brother and sister-in-law are waiting for you to join them”, he said softly, “and I took the liberty of arranging cover for you at the surgery for a week.”

It was the bitter wind off the North Sea that made my eyes water. Mostly. Even if we had not been the only people on the platform, I would still have taken him in my arms and kissed him. I held him close, and only the hiss of the approaching down train made me let go and hurry to cross to the northbound platform.

“And Dean?” he called after me.

I turned,

“Remember, when you return to London – we shall have seven days of sex to catch up on!”

It was damnably hard to scuttle across the tracks with a full-on erection, and the bastard knew that. God, I loved him so much!

+~+~+

Next time, it's all about changing trains as Cas and I meet a familiar face in the unlikely setting of Northumberland's neighbour across the Pennines, the beautiful county of Westmorland.....


	5. Case 72: Bloodlines (1894)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the Addleton Tragedy'.

Foreword: This story is included thanks to a request from Squire Philip Mollington, who asked me to publish it to help quash certain rumours surrounding his late father.

I

“We are going North to meet an old acquaintance”, Cas said one sunny August day at breakfast.

I should almost certainly have been annoyed at his presumption that I would follow him like an obedient dog. He must have noticed my reaction, because he eyed me as he took an overly long sip of his tea, something he tended to do when he was uncertain. Or when he was about to.....

God, but I had missed him! Weird-smelling tea and all!

“When?” I asked. It was a Thursday and therefore not one of my surgery days, but I did have one patient I had promised to call in on. And one of the far too few who paid their bills on time! 

“There was a double murder in Westmorland last night, and I should be on the scene as soon as possible”, he said, clearly a little wary that he had over-presumed. “I am sorry. You do not usually work on Thursdays....”

“I promised Mrs. Beltane that I would check in on the progress of her son Frederick's recovery”, I said. “But it is nothing too serious. We could also call in at her house on the way to the station. Are we travelling from Euston?”

He looked relieved at my acceptance.

“Yes, or if your client is a little demanding, we could catch a later train from St. Pancras”, he said, putting his tea down. “I am sorry if I assumed too much….”

“I am just glad to have you back”, I said. He looked pleased, and I was unable to resist adding, “even if the place does look a mess!”

He gave his most mournful injured puppy look, which was frankly unfair. I should have been inured from such things with my brother three hundred miles away.

“I don’t have anyone to tidy up after me anymore!” he said mournfully, as if he was being horribly deprived. And it was his grabbing me the minute I had come in from work yesterday and taking me then and there amidst all his papers that was the cause of this wreckage! Grumpily I threw a breakfast roll at him, and disappeared into my room to get ready.

+~+~+

As well as being a good payer, I quite liked old Mrs. Beltane, who wanted me to check up on her omega son. The boy had been suffering a persistent cold, and it had lasted for over a month now, but the medicine I had proscribed last time seemed to be working, to my relief. I declined her generous offer of tea, as I wanted to be off with my friend. The London traffic also delayed us, so we headed to St. Pancras after all, as the Midland Railway trains served the town of Kirkby Stephen, which was near to our destination (on the London and North Western from Euston, though we could have got there quicker, we would then have faced a long carriage ride from Tebay). Addleton Hall, where the murder had taken place, had its own private halt, but as that lay on the North Eastern Railway's line across the Pennines, it was quicker to alight at Kirkby Stephen and take a carriage. The Railway Age was a wonderful thing; so many options in such a rural area.

This was the time when corridor coaches were fast becoming the norm, and it was odd to recall that railway travel for the masses had only really started some two decades ago, when the Midland Railway had slashed fares for third-class passengers, and forced other companies to follow suit. I rather preferred the old non-corridor coaches which ensured one's privacy, and was pleased that Cas had secured us a first-class compartment in the rear saloon car of the train. Which meant that we would not be disturbed by people walking up and down past us all the time. How nice of him.

+~+~+

I winced as the train jerked away from Sheffield Midland Station, and began to pick up speed once more. Cas' face had, predictably, gone from neutral to feral in a matter of seconds.

“Dean!” he growled.

I nodded frantically and scrambled to my feet, ignoring the ache in my backside. We had barely been clear of the platforms at Euston before Cas had been on me, quickly scissoring me open and spearing me with that huge cock of his. I would never view the points north of Euston the same way again, for the swaying of the train from side to side meant he struck my prostate several times in a row before leaving it be, causing me to whine in anticipation. He was obviously wearing a cock-ring himself, for he refrained from painting my insides as usual, whilst I erupted all over the opposite seat. He duly wiped it all down, then had the brass neck to insert a plug into me and tell me to pull my clothes up and 'look normal'. Thank Heavens that he had pulled the screens down on both sides, the standard sign during daylight hours of someone who wished Not To Be Disturbed. I was sure that as we pulled into St. Albans City Station Junction, I positively radiated an alpha who had just had sex. Cas, of course, looked like he had just come from taking an elocution lesson, the bastard!

I only began to realize just how much trouble I was in when we left St. Albans, for Cas was on me again, and this time insisted on staying inside me nearly all the way to Bedford, before re-inserting the plug and sitting back, a huge smirk on his face. This was frankly demeaning, and I should not have stood for it. Except when we left Bedford, I did stand for it. And again when we left Leicester. And Derby. And now.....

This time Cas didn't even bother to get semi-undressed, just whipping out his ever-ready hard cock and gesturing for me to come and sit on him. I sighed in a put-upon way and backed onto him, and he gently removed the plug before positioning himself at my entrance. And then without warning he pulled me down onto him in one quick movement, and oh my God, he was going straight for the prostate. I had no sperm left by this time, but my cock still juddered feebly, as he nibbled at the back of my neck. I only hoped he was not leaving another love-bite; the one from earlier this week was large enough, and I had had several strange looks from people at the surgery, as well as some patients. Alphas who allowed their mates to mark them were rare indeed, and the practice was seen as somewhat unmanly.

(I was mostly naked, sat on another alpha's cock and being mated six ways from Sunday on a train passing through the West Riding of Yorkshire. I thought wryly that my manliness had been left somewhere back in London!)

And now Cas was jerking me off with one hand, whilst toying with my nipple with the other, muttering gentle reassurance in my ear. I nestled back into him, and silently wished that Sheffield and Leeds were not so close together, as my battered body twitched exhaustedly. And I wondered.... would Cas be reserving a saloon for the journey back to London?

I hoped so. Well, parts of me did.....

II

I was torn between surprise and relief when, on reaching Leeds, Cas gestured for me to grab my bag and leave with him (the bastard left the plug in, which was downright mean of him!), though it turned out we were only going as far as the dining-car. I had thought that we might transfer to a local train to reach Kirkby Stephen, which was after all only a small town, but Cas explained that he had arranged for the express to stop there, and could do so again when it was time for us to return. The only slight distraction was said plug, but at least it was not the vibrator.

I, of course, was dumb enough to mutter that thought once the waiter had taken our order. Cas' eyes lit up, and I silently thanked God that we had left the vibrator back in Baker Street. The thought of trying to dine with Cas in public whilst that torture device was massaging my prostate every second was.... disturbingly exciting.

What was I turning into?

+~+~+

It was dark by the time we reached the little Westmorland town. A carriage was waiting for us, with one passenger inside it already. 

“Mr. Novak, Doctor Winchester?”

I recognized that voice, and when the dark-skinned man leant forward out of the carriage, I knew him for sure. Except what was the man with an unusual name doing nearly three hundred miles away from his Surrey beat?

“Constable Henriksen!” I exclaimed.

“It’s sergeant now”, he said with a smile, before it faded. “I am glad to see you gentlemen again, though I wish it were under happier circumstances. I have two dead bodies, a man with a strong motive – and no earthly way he can have done it!”

+~+~+

If this was Kirkby Stephen Station, then presumably the Midland Railway Company had been somewhat liberal with its definitions, as I could see little if any signs of life when we rolled away from the station yard.

“The town is two miles up that road”, Sergeant Henriksen said, pointing north past the few houses into the empty night. “We shall skirt the edges, then cut across to Addleton itself.”

Even that simple gesture earned his coated arm a soaking from the torrential rain which had timed its arrival perfectly to match that of our train. I presumed that our old friend did not wish our deliberations to be overheard by the driver, for he remained silent for the time it took to reach our destination.

Quite what Addleton Hall itself was like I had no idea, for by the time of our arrival the torrential rain had accelerated to the point where ark-building was looking a good bet. We were drenched even by the short run from the carriage to the porch, and I was relieved when a footman took my sodden coat from me.

The entrance-hall of the building was about as depressing as one might have expected from somewhere that two people had just been killed. Sergeant Henriksen guided us into what turned out to be a study, and the efficient staff had coffee and sandwiches ready for us. I was relieved, as I was once more ravenously hungry. I caught Cas and the sergeant both eyeing me with some humour, and I scowled at them both. A man had to eat, damn it! I sat down rather too quickly, and my eyes watered. 

Ah. The plug.

+~+~+

The food and drinks were cleared away before Sergeant Henriksen began his talk.

“To begin with”, he said, “I should say that I was not the first officer on the scene. After our adventure in Surrey I got my promotion to sergeant, thanks at least in part to your efforts, sirs, but there was little chance for further advancement, as one local family who had some seven members in the force wanted their three sergeants promoted when the chance to become inspector rolled around. Fortunately Uncle Vic kept an eye open for me, and he heard of an opening for sergeant at Appleby, with the Westmorland Police, which is expanding its numbers unlike my own force. I applied, and I was accepted.”

“I remember your aptitude in the Adventure of the Reigate Squires”, Cas said warmly, “and I am sure it was your own merits that won you that well-deserved promotion. Now, please tell us about our current case.”

The huge man sat back and sighed.

“It’s bad”, he said. “Squire Edward Mollington was a man much loved by everyone around, and he and his wife have both been killed. Murdered by someone sneaking into the house and shooting them dead whilst they were at dinner. There was a huge storm passing over at the time, so the gunshots were mistaken for that, I presume. It was only when the maid came in that the horror was discovered.”

Cas frowned.

“That seems somewhat risky, on the murderer’s behalf”, he observed. “Unless he was watching, he could not know if a maid might suddenly return unexpectedly. Although I suppose having proven to be so bloodthirsty, one more body would probably not account for much. How did the murderer access this room?”

“There is a balcony door, with a simple lock on it”, the sergeant said, gesturing to it. “I myself was able to force it open this morning, and there was evidence of it being attempted before. I found some footprints leading across a muddy part of the grass to the wall, but they were a size six. My chief suspect is an eight.”

“Who is he?” Cas asked.

“The squire’s brother David and now, I suppose, guardian to the new squire, his nephew Philip. The boy is an only child, a ten-year-old alpha and, fortunately, was away at school in Barrow when this happened.”

Cas looked hard at him.

“There is something odd here”, he said. “What is it?”

III

The sergeant grinned.

“Never could get one past you, sir”, he said. “The boy was due home yesterday, before the attack, but his mother arranged for him to stay with a friend in Keswick for a few days. Just as well.”

“You are certain that his mother arranged this?” Cas asked. “Not the other boy's parents?”

Sergeant Henriksen nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “And that, with the shooting.... well.”

I felt I was missing something here.

“What is it?” I asked. Cas turned to me.

“No matter how fast the shooter”, he said, “it takes several seconds to shoot two people sat in different places at a dinner table. In that time, the one that was shot second would doubtless call for help, unless….”  
   
The sergeant nodded.  
   
“Someone else was in on it”, he said firmly.

“Tell me more about your suspect”, Cas said.

The sergeant frowned.

“Mr. David Mollington, an alpha. Motive is obvious as he is now his nephew's guardian. He has a gun and is an excellent shot, and as to opportunity – well, that is the problem.”

“Please explain”, Cas said.

Sergeant Henriksen consulted his notebook. 

The issue is one of timing”, he explained. “Mr. David was due to arrive after dinner, to discuss certain financial matters as regards the estate. He has a house in Appleby, and went to the North Eastern Railway station there in time to catch the seven twenty-one train to Addleton Halt. The ticket-collector and the station-master both remember him, and he boarded the train immediately it arrived, at seven-ten. It has to wait for the northbound train before it can access the single line, you see.”

“I see something there”, Cas said. “Does the man not own a carriage of his own?”

“Yes, but his horse was being treated by the local vet for lameness, so he had to catch the train. I did check that, of course.”

Cas nodded. 

“Very wise”, he said.

“Anyway, the sergeant continued, “the train left two minutes late, and reached Kirkby Stephen at seven thirty-eight, one minute down. It stops there for five minutes, so was able to depart on time, at seven forty-two. The train reached Addleton Hall Halt at seven forty-eight, which was of course closed for the night by that time. Mr. David walked from there to the hall itself – it is about ten minutes – and arrived here at just before eight. The footman who let him in remembered that the hall clock was striking.”

“A most fortuitous alibi”, Cas smiled. “What next?”

“Mr. David was shown into the library, and a maid went to inform the squire that his brother was here. That, of course, was when all hell broke loose. Constable Grafton was summoned from the town – he’s a good man, and he made sure everything was done by the book – and I was called in from my station in Appleby. I was off duty, but for such an important client, of course I had to come. I did a quick check last night, and Mr. David insisted I stay the night so I could continue my investigations this morning.”

“Is Mr. David here now?” Cas asked.

“No, he wished to return to his own house this morning”, the sergeant said. “I can understand why, I suppose. I feel in my bones that he must be guilty, but I do not see how.”

“Nor do I, for now”, Cas admitted. “This case will take some thought. Assuming that on the morrow the good Lord has stopped trying to flood this fair county, Winchester and I will take a breath of your morning air, and we will see what we can do.”

Sergeant Henriksen then showed us exactly where the squire and his wife had been sitting at the time, both at the end furthest from the balcony window. It would indeed have needed a good shot to pick off one person at that distance, let alone two. The sergeant also drew our attention to a bell-pull. 

“This was between the two people”, he said. “As you said, one or other of them could easily have summoned help in seconds. The squire disliked it as medieval, however, and rarely used it.”

“Have you tested it?” Cas asked. 

The sergeant reddened. The detective smiled.

“Even I do not think of everything”, he said consolingly, before pulling the rope hard. 

It promptly fell to the floor. We all looked at it in surprise, before Cas carefully picked it up.

“The end has been taped to something”, he said, and cleanly cut from the rest of the rope with some sort of knife. Rather an unusual one by the slightly uneven ends; I would suggest some sort of kitchen knife. So we know for sure that someone else was involved. Henriksen, you should seal off this room until further notice. We do not wish our potential suspect to know we are aware of their little ruse.”

The sergeant nodded, clearly a little embarrassed at not having spotted such a thing himself. We examined the rest of the room but did not find anything of import, so adjourned to our beds.

IV

The next morning, the three of us assembled in the study. I knew from the light in Cas' eyes that he had thought of something. 

“First”, he said, turning to Sergeant Henriksen, “I need to know a couple of things. Is Mr. David aware that you have brought me in on the case?”

The sergeant scratched his head.

“I did not tell him, sir”, he said, “but given the area, I would be surprised if he does not find out soon. These rural areas have their own invisible telegraph system!”

“Then we must move fast”, Cas said firmly. “Next, to Mr. David himself. Apart from his late brother, what other family does he have?” 

“None close, sir”, the sergeant said. “I believe there is a sister up in Carlisle, but they do not talk much.”

“I wish you to go and interview her today”, Cas said, much to my surprise. And to the sergeant's judging by his reaction.

“Sir?”

“I require as much information about Mr. David's character as you can get”, Cas said. “I know it is a fair journey, but I would not ask if it were not important. And when you return, can you meet us in Appleby at around six? At the North Eastern Railway station there, if you please.”

The sergeant still looked puzzled, but stood up.

“Very well, sir”, he said, and left.

I would have said something at this point, but Cas silently hushed me, so I waited until the sergeant had gone before speaking.

“You think the sister will provide some useful information?” I asked dubiously.

He laughed.

“I most sincerely doubt it”, he said. 

“Then why...?”

He sighed, sounding almost unhappily.

“Doctor, I may be what they call a 'town boy', but I know rural areas like this”, he said. “Mr. David Mollington, now the squire in all but name until his nephew comes of age – and that I consider unlikely, given his uncle's proclivity to remove his own kith and kin from this plane of existence – is an important person in these parts. If he thinks our good friend is getting close to the truth, he will use his connections to ruin him. The sergeant can have a pleasant day out in that old Roman citadel, and Mr. Mollington's sister will doubtless telegraph events to her brother before Henriksen reaches Citadel Station, so he will rest easy that he is on the wrong track. No, we must secure our case today and strike fast. We start with the servants.”

+~+~+

Hudson, the butler, was the longest-serving of all the staff at the hall. Cas summoned him to the study, and the man stood proud and erect despite his sixty-odd years.

“You are aware as to why I have been called in?” Cas asked.

“Yes, sir”, he said. “To investigate the master's and the mistress' deaths.”

“You understand that in order to establish the truth, I must ask some difficult questions?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good”, he said. “I have only one main question for you, Hudson. I know that Mrs. Mollington was secretly seeing a gentleman in recent times. I am going to write that gentleman's name on this piece of paper, and pass it to you. I require either conformation or denial that this is the correct person.”

He quickly wrote something on a scrap of paper and passed it to the butler, who blanched. 

“You are quite correct, sir.”

“Thank you, Hudson.”

The butler hesitated.

“May I be allowed a question of my own, sir?”

“Of course”, Cas said.

“Will your gentleman friend be writing this up as one of your cases?”

“Not in the foreseeable future”, I said firmly. “At least, not until the young squire comes of age and can decide if he wishes the details to be made public.”

The butler nodded.

“Thank you, sirs”, he said, and withdrew. And to my ultimate annoyance, Cas scrunched up the piece of paper he had written the name on and threw it neatly into the fire. 

I shot him a glare for that.

+~+~+

We did nothing for the rest of the morning, although Cas went out for a short walk by himself for half an hour or so, and we had luncheon at the hall. Mercifully the weather had cleared, as my friend had ordered a carriage for the afternoon. I turned out to be a short journey he had in mind, however, as we went only as far as the nearby town of Kirkby Stephen. Once there, he visited the three sets of stables in the town, and came away from the third looking exceptionally pleased with himself, having hired a bay horse which he tied to the back of the carriage.

“Why do we need another horse?” I asked curiously.

“Patience”, he said. “All will be revealed soon.”

Sometimes I wondered why I put up with him. Though I knew the answer to that one.

V

We proceeded as far as the Midland Railway's station of the day before, where having left the carriage and the spare horse behind, Cas spent some time scouring the station yard for something or other, he would not say what. Apparently he found it fairly quickly, for we still had a long wait for a northbound train to come in. We reached Appleby at just after five, and walked the short distance to the North Eastern Railway station, where Sergeant Henriksen was waiting for us on the platform. Cas gracefully accepted his notes from his interview with Mr. David Mollington's sister, and we sat down in the waiting room. 

“Gentlemen”, Cas said, “my plans for this evening are to effect a reconstruction of the crime. I believe I can show how Mr. David Mollington killed his brother, yet also established for himself what seemed like the perfect alibi. Assuming, that is, that our esteemed railway companies perform to time.”

“That would be wonderful if you could”, the sergeant said, looking at the large wicker basket Cas had brought with us from the hall. “Is there a clue in that huge thing?”

Cas opened the basket, and showed its contents to us both.

“Dinner”, he grinned. “We have a long evening ahead of us.”

God bless the man, there was even pie!

+~+~+

We were on the southbound platform of Appleby Station when at ten minutes past seven the green North Eastern Railway train pulled in in a swirl of steam and smoke. Cas had purchased three single first-class tickets for us. As the train slowed to a halt, he turned to us.

“Gentlemen”, he said firmly, “you must both follow me and do exactly as I do, until I say otherwise. Understood?”

We both nodded, although I did not see exactly how following him into a railway carriage demanded such precise instructions. 

I should have known better.

Cas got into the compartment first, then I followed and the sergeant handed me the basket. I turned to speak to my friend, only to find he had vanished.

“What on earth...?” I exclaimed.

There was a tap on the window. Cas' head was looking at me from his position between the tracks.

“Hurry!” he demanded.

By the time the sergeant and I had sorted ourselves out, my friend was leaving the station via the level-crossing and hurrying into the twilight. We hoisted the basket between us and raced after him. After only a short time it became clear where he was heading, and sure enough he went into the Midland Railway station, where a train was snorting impatiently at the platform. Hoping that he had arranged the tickets, I led the sergeant after him, and the two of us made it into the carriage barely a minute before the train started on its journey.

“I checked the railway timetables in the hall library this morning”, Cas said, and the two of us recovered. “This train, the seven-nineteen, reaches the Midland station in Kirkby Stephen at seven thirty-one, seventeen minutes before the North Eastern train pulls into Addleton Hall Halt.”

“I should have spotted that!” the sergeant said glumly. “I interviewed the staff at the halt, but not there. Though how did he get to the hall in time? It is still some distance away.”

“This was a well-planned crime”, Cas explained. “A short time back, Mr. David Mollington probably makes his own horse lame, and ensures that the local vet treats her, so it appears that he has no transport. Three days ago he disguises himself and takes a train to Kirkby Stephen, where he hires a horse for a few days, rides it back to the Midland Railway station in that town, and leaves it in the stables there under a false name. The College Arms in the town hired such a horse to a man loosely matching Mr. David's description, and it is due to be returned tomorrow. I would suggest, sergeant, that it might be in your interest to be in the area at that time.”

The sergeant nodded. The train slowed at that moment, and we were pulling into Kirkby Stephen station. Once there, Cas ran ahead, and by the time Sergeant Henriksen and I were there, had the carriage with the spare horse ready. It was dusk by this time.

“You will notice”, he said, “that there is a second horse in the stables here. I would recommend coming here first thing tomorrow morning, sergeant, and checking it thoroughly. There may even be a loose thread from the killer's clothes trapped in the saddle.”

“I see it now”, I said. “Except.... who was the man that Mrs. Mollington was seeing?”

Cas looked at me almost sorrowfully. I suddenly felt a cold that had nothing to do with the icy barn we were all standing in.

“The sergeant suspected rightly”, he said. “Two people are shot, yet the second one does not call for help. Mrs. Mollington was secretly seeing her own brother-in-law.”

“What?” I exclaimed in horror. That was practically incest!

“Mr. David Mollington rides to the hall directly from Kirkby Stephen's Midland Railway Station”, he explained. “At a gallop, barely five minutes, so he is there before twenty to eight. He enters via the balcony window, most probably left ajar for him by his lover, and shoots the squire dead. Mrs. Mollington, the poor foolish woman, turns to her lover, only to receive the same treatment. Her killer had no intention of acquiring a burdensome partner for the next few years, during which he intends to strip his nephew's estate bare, and quite probably kill him before he comes of age.”

“He leaves, and knowing the estate as well as he does, he knows there is one particularly muddy area of the lawn where footprints may survive the downpour that has helped mask his killings. He leaves false tracks in shoes that are too small for him – that made me suspicious right away – then retrieves his horse and gallops back to the halt, probably arriving about the same time as the North Eastern Railway train he was supposed to be on. You will recall the state of the horse, which had clearly been through some poor usage. Our killer then rides more slowly back to the hall, timing his arrival to when he knows the hall clock will be striking the hour, and will be remembered.”

“The bastard!” I said.

“But we've got him!” the sergeant said, his eyes glowing in the dark.

+~+~+

We had. A search of the horse early the following morning revealed a red fibre with gold braid, which matched Mr. David Mollington's coat that he had worn on the night. And when he returned the horse in Kirkby Stephen wearing the same disguise as before, he was arrested for the murder of his brother. Sadly, however, he was not to face the deserved long drop for his crimes, for he somehow gained access to a razor whilst in jail, and slit his own throat rather than face up to his crimes.

+~+~+

Cas, it turned out, had not left the vibrator back in London after all. I could not sit down for three whole days afterwards!

+~+~+

Our next case would involve the famous (or infamous) Smith-Mortimer inheritance, and an encounter with the most unpleasant Colonel Carruthers....

 


	6. Case 73: Weekend At Bobby's (1894)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'Colonel Carruthers, and the Smith-Mortimer succession'. The publishers would not let me title this story as 'The Prisoner Of Astrakhan', claiming such a title would never sell.

Foreword: To clarify the confusion over borders which several people questioned me about when this story was originally published, the village of Portsmouth had been part of Lancashire until the 1888 Local Government Act just prior to the time this story was set which, as well as removing most of the exclaves around the generally untidy English county borders, also shifted the village into the West Riding of Yorkshire. It is safe to say that relations between Lancashire and Yorkshire were soured by the fifteenth-century Wars of the Roses, and have been poor ever since.

I

It was early autumn in 'Ninety-Four, and seven glorious months since my life had been turned upside-down – or should I say the right way up? – by Cas’ return from the grave. Unusually our next case started not in Baker Street, as so may did, but on the border between the West Riding of Yorkshire and the county of Lancashire, to which area we had decamped after a most annoying incident late the previous month. A traction engine coming down Baker Street had lost control when its driver had become distracted for some reason, and had swerved straight into the neighbouring 221A. Unfortunately the damage was such that structural repair work was recommended on all three parts of the former Glendower Mansion, and as this would have made daily life in our rooms unpleasant, Cas had recommended that we decamp elsewhere. It had been a particularly hot and unpleasant summer, so I had decided to look at places away from the capital for the month during which we would be temporarily homeless.

My maternal aunt Mrs. Janet Singer had, some years back, left Northumberland for the village of Portsmouth not long after Sammy and I, and had married an American businessman. They had lived happily together for some years whilst he had travelled frequently across the wide ocean, before he had died in 'Ninety-One, passing only days before my own date with destiny in his homeland. Uncle Richard's brother Robert Singer had fulfilled his sibling's last request and brought his body back to England, and with his home-town of Sioux Falls suffering from both food shortages and the general economic depression, decided to stay, using his money to set himself and his sister-in-law up at a guest-house (the name 'Bobby's was a little too American for my tastes, I felt). It had seemed an odd choice of place but had proven to be an excellent one; with the Victorian passion for hill-walking, the place was nearly always full, and Cas and I had to share a room.

We coped.

Mr. Robert Singer was a gruff beta of a man, who somehow contrived to be even scruffier than Cas was in the mornings, a feat I had hitherto considered all but impossible. His accent reminded me of the pain of my recent loss, but I had Cas back again, and I could live with that, even if Mr. Singer sometimes looked at the two of us and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'idjits'. Though we were only a train-ride from the hustle and bustle that was Manchester, we might as well have been on another planet. Only the sound of trains chuffing up and down the valley reminded us that we were, indeed, still connected to the rest of civilization.

That and, almost predictably, another case.  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was morning in the Singer household, in the penultimate week of our stay there (I only found out some months later that Cas himself funded the repairs to all three Baker Street properties whilst the insurance companies dragged their feet as always, which was why they were completed so quickly and efficiently). I had been reading about a new shop opening in the city owned by two gentlemen called Marks and Spencer – an unusual combination, I thought – when I became aware that Mr. Robert Singer was frowning over a letter he had received in the morning post.  
   
“Is something wrong?” I asked courteously.  
   
“Your friend’s stay here may be Providence”, he muttered. “Looks like I might need his services for myself.”  
   
He would say no more, but I know that he approached Cas in private not long after we had finished eating. I felt more than a little warm when a maid called at my room, saying Cas was asking for me. Apparently he was not prepared to undertake a case without his friend at hand to document it, whether or not (as in our last two cases together) it could be then published.  
   
Mr. Robert Singer looked more than a little annoyed at my arrival, and I took that to mean he had unsuccessfully objected to my presence. I took out my notebook and waited.  
   
“The doctor documents all my cases”, Cas said a little pointedly. “Without exception, whomsoever the client may be. Your secrets are safe in his hands, sir.”  
   
The bearded almost-relative looked uncertain, but went ahead with his tale.  
   
“Sirs”, he said, “some ten years ago I came to England for the first time, to visit my brother. The trip itself was uneventful, until I docked at the port of Liverpool and found an alpha abusing his omega mate on the quayside. Words were exchanged, there was a scuffle, and he tried to fire his gun at me, but only succeeded in shooting himself. He died soon after; mercifully your country's police are excellent, and after a short investigation I was cleared of any wrongdoing. Except that, to my shock, the omega declared himself attached to me, of all people!”

He sounded quite indignant at that. I suppressed a smile.

“Anyway”, he went on, “the man proved quite charming, and eventually I agreed to take him in. His name was Rufus Turner, and he was an escaped slave. I shall not disturb you gentlemen by saying what was done to him during his time in captivity, save to say that the first thing he told me was that he could never have children. This, I had to admit, was something of a blow, but I had come to care for the man, and I made it quite clear that whilst I might hope at some future time to adopt one boy and one girl unto our family, I would totally respect his wishes, whether those be to decline or to delay. To my joy he wanted to have a boy, and the adoption procedures were in motion when he was tragically taken from us during an outbreak of whooping-cough barely a year after I had accepted him. His last request was that I care for the boy we had so nearly acquired together, and I pledged so to do.”  
   
“The boy’s name was Roger Bennet, and whilst I have an honest assessment of my own parenting skills which prevents me from making him suffer by trying to be a single parent to him, I retained what you might call an interest in him. I have some small influence in these parts, and I used it to obtain a set of parents for him in lieu of myself and poor Rufus. Joseph and Irene Smith-Mortimer were an excellent couple, and he grew up well with them, adopting their name and recently attaining his twelfth birthday. He is a fine character, and I placed a sum of money in the bank for him each Christmas and birthday, to be presented to him on his twenty-first birthday. Needless to say, he is unaware of my existence.”  
   
“You may have read of the Chorley train crash in the paper at the end of last week. I learned this morning that the boy’s parents were amongst the victims. That would have been bad enough, but last month, unbeknownst to me, Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s father died only last year, and bequeathed his considerable estate to him. That estate should, of course, now pass to the boy, but his title is being contested by a relative who claims that as he is adopted, he cannot inherit.”  
   
“That would depend on the precise wording of the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer Senior’s will”, Cas said. “Unless it pointedly excluded adopted children, there would not be a bar.”  
   
Mr. Singer sighed heavily.  
   
“Regretfully the man contesting is Colonel Horatio Carruthers, a scoundrel of the first order”, he said. “And worst of all, a scoundrel with deep pockets. I am trying to help the boy, but I cannot match his financial fire-power. We may have to yield simply because of the lawyers’ fees.”  
   
“Ah”, said, Cas, “but you do have one advantage that the colonel has not.”  
   
Mr. Singer looked puzzled.  
   
“What is that, sir?” he asked.  
   
“Why, the services of London’s best consulting detective, of course!” Cas exclaimed.  
   
“Just not the most modest!” I added, rather more loudly that I had intended. Mr. Singer chuckled at that, and Cas raised an eyebrow at me that quite clearly said I would pay for that remark later.

At least I hoped it did!  
   
II

We were actually not that far from the famous Brontë Country, which I had been lucky enough to visit during our case in Armsworth Castle some six years ago ('There's No Place Like Home'). Cas, true friend like he was, arranged for a day out to revisit Haworth, and our carriage later took us to Top Withens, supposedly the inspiration for Wuthering Heights, though we had to walk some way to see it.

Of course the British weather decided to butt into my enjoyment of a great day out, and the clouds opened when we were halfway back to the carriage. Fortunately a ruined old barn offered at least some protection from the suddenly ferocious weather, and we almost fell over our feet as we hurried inside it. I turned to grin at my friend, but my smile vanished almost immediately when I saw the look on his face. It was positively feral.

“I want you inside of me!” he all but snarled. “Now!”

I nodded frantically, but he had got his trousers off in record time and was now palming my cock out into the cold autumn air. I whimpered piteously; hell, I was an alpha too, but I always lost all control when I was with Cas, even if I was the one inside of him. He used that impossibly flexible body of his to somehow lever himself up onto me, and before I could object, he was lowering himself down onto me, his body impossibly tight around my cock. I could only lean back against the wall for support and buck my hips as I tried to push in even further. 

“I liked my present”, he muttered into my neck.

For a moment my brain spluttered, but then I remembered that that morning I had given Cas a book on bees for his fortieth birthday, which he had enthused over. 

“And yet you want more?” I spluttered, trying to prevent myself from coming too soon at his ecstatic moaning.

“I always want more from you, Dean”, he hissed. “And you always let me have it.”

So I let him have it, thrusting in as hard as I could. And for once I actually beat him to orgasm, coming violently inside him as he whispered praises and thanks into my neck before erupting himself, his come smearing between our clothes. I panted hard, and kissed him tenderly. God, I loved this man!

He had to help me walk back to the carriage.

+~+~+  
   
The following day we had an appointment with Mr. Nehemiah Bradstreet, the lawyer in charge of administering the Smith-Mortimer family estate. We all sat down and he explained the legal situation to us in a speech which, were I to repeat it, would have merited a story of its own. To spare the reader, I shall paraphrase.  
   
Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had, in his final year, suffered a debilitating illness which, disastrously, had led to him falling into the clutches of Colonel Horatio Carruthers, who had moved into the Smith-Mortimer family home and ensconced himself there. The colonel was the man’s nephew, the son of his sister Eustasia, and the next in line after his only son Joseph and Joseph's adopted son Roger. Mr. Bradstreet had represented several times to his client the importance of clearing up the wording of the estate’s conditions of inheritance, but the colonel himself had always pooh-poohed the idea, stating that only a fool would try to disinherit the boy. Once the old man had passed, however, he proved himself no fool, for he immediately lodged his own claim. Even before the funeral, the lawyer had spluttered indignantly.  
   
The problem was that Colonel Carruthers’ control of his uncle’s household during his last few weeks had been positively Draconian. Nothing and no-one had been allowed to come in and out, and even his lawyer had been prevented from seeing him. Mr. Bradstreet was all but certain it had belatedly become Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s intention to leave a new will clarifying matters, but his nephew had prevented him from so doing.  
   
We left the offices and adjourned to a nearby restaurant for luncheon. Mr. Singer was clearly depressed at the morning’s events.  
   
“If I am to make anything of this case”, Cas said, “I will need to speak with the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s servants. My intuition tells me that they hold the key to this matter.”  
   
Mr. Singer nodded, and took out a piece of paper which he handed across to Cas.  
   
“The first three are the ones worth pursuing”, he said. “They were all fond of their late master, by all accounts, and were all dismissed upon his death. The fourth, John Wishaw, was kept on as he chose to assist Colonel Carruthers in his ambitions.”  
   
“Ambitions we must endeavour to thwart”, Cas said. “The cook, the maid, the butler. We shall start with the heart of the home, the kitchen, and visit Mrs. Olivia Damson.”  
   
III  
   
The late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had lived in Leyland, a town in central Lancashire. Fortunately for us, two of the staff recommended to us by Mr. Singer had moved to Manchester in pursuit of work after his death, which meant we could visit them both in the same day. After spending what seemed like an eternity assuring Mrs. Damson’s new employer (Mrs. Featherstone, a married lady of almost sixty who batted her eyelashes at Cas in a most unbecoming manner!) that her cook was not a hardened criminal or a secret axe-murderer, the three of us were allowed to descend to talk to her. Cas had wisely refrained from telling the lady that we were pursuing a murder investigation, or we would never have got there!  
   
Mrs. Olivia Damson was supervising the cooking of something that smelled heavenly. She took us into a small side-room and sat calmly waiting for our questions.  
   
“This concerns your late employer, Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer”, Cas began. “In particular, his relationship with his nephew, Colonel Horatio Carruthers.”  
   
Mrs. Damson’s expression changed abruptly, looking like she had just stepped in something unpleasant.  
   
“That 'person'!” she said scornfully. “Mr. Smith-Mortimer was a wonderful man, but something rotten got into the branch of the family tree that produced the colonel. A Thoroughly Bad Lot.”  
   
She enunciated the capitals quite clearly. I smiled at her firmness.  
   
“Mrs. Damson”, Cas said, “although you may not have had direct dealings with Mr. Smith-Mortimer, you are clearly a most perspicacious lady. I would welcome any observations you had on the last few months of your late employer’s life. In particular, anything that struck you as out of the ordinary.”  
   
She thought for a moment.  
   
“I am sure such gentlemen as yourself know the way the land lay as regards dear Mr. Smith-Mortimer and that rapscallion of a nephew of his”, she said. “As the cook, I saw little – but there was one strange thing, now you come to mention it. Though I don’t see how it could help you at all.”  
   
“Yet clearly you noticed it”, Cas smiled. “What was it?”  
   
She looked embarrassed, before saying rather quietly, “the ketchup.”  
   
“Pardon?” I asked.  
   
“Mr. Smith-Mortimer always loved his Heinz tomato ketchup, especially on fish and chips”, she said, looking as if she expected us to pour scorn on her suggestion. “Yet four weeks before the end, he suddenly went off it.”  
   
“May I ask, did he have anything else instead?” Cas asked.  
   
“He had a slice of lemon for a couple of weeks, then he tried brown sauce, and finally just plain. He passed on before he could change his mind again.”  
   
“Mrs. Damson”, Cas said with a smile, “thank you very much. That is exactly what I had hoped you would say. You have been most helpful, and if I am able to bring this case to a successful conclusion, I shall communicate that fact to you here.”  
   
We bowed ourselves away from the cook, and once we were on our way to our next destination, I asked Cas what he had meant.  
   
“Think”, he said. “We know that Mr. Smith-Mortimer was virtually a prisoner in his own home in his last few weeks. I fully expected him to evince a sudden taste for lemon-flavoured fish.”  
   
He looked at us both as if it were obvious, which I found annoying because it most definitely was not!  
   
+~+~+  
   
Our second call of the day was to Miss Anne Bayley, former housemaid to Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer. Her new post was working for an agency which cleaned certain businesses in the town, and it was our good fortune that it was her half-day, so we were able to catch her at home. Her parents were a little alarmed at our arrival, but all was soon explained, although Miss Bayley shyly asked if they could remain for the interview, to which request Cas acceded.  
   
“I would like to know more about your late employer, Mr. Smith-Mortimer”, Cas said. “In particular, what sort of person was he? Did he socialize much, perhaps?”  
   
She looked surprised at that.  
   
“Goodness me, no sir”, she said firmly. “The only person he used to see at all apart from family was Mr. Benezet, who lived across the hill.”  
   
I looked up at the curious expression. Miss Bayley explained.  
   
“Astrakhan, Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s house, stands on a hill some way back from the road”, she said. “The area is quiet enough, and the only other house you could see was Lilyhurst, Mr. Benezet’s place, which is on its own small hill. He was a very nice man; lived there with a gentleman friend of his, a Mr. Wallace. Both alphas, so it was all quite proper.”

I thought wryly of Cas and a certain ruined barn on the Yorkshire moors. What we had got up to there had most definitely not been 'quite proper'. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth told me that he was thinking much the same.  
   
“Though I presume contact stopped once Colonel Carruthers arrived”, he asked politely.  
   
The maid had much the same look as her fellow servant had had a few hours before, as if scenting something unpleasant.  
   
“That man”, she said bitterly, “made a most improper suggestion as to how I might keep my post, and poor Mr. Smith-Mortimer not even carried out of the house at the time. I told him exactly where he could shove it, if you’ll pardon my French!”  
   
I liked the girl’s spirit.

“I had the good fortune to speak with Mrs. Damson earlier today”, Cas said. “She is doing well in her new post. I would like to ask you much the same question I asked her. Did your employer do anything unusual, even slightly out of the ordinary, during the time Colonel Carruthers was there?”

She frowned in memory.

“Well, he did move”, she said eventually.

“Move?” Cas asked, clearly confused. She nodded.

“His bedroom was in the back of the house”, she said. “Very nice it was, overlooking the gardens and all, lovely warm room with a balcony. But he wanted to be moved to the front, and right up the East Tower.” She saw our confusion, and smiled. “I'm sorry sirs, I forget you haven't been there. The place was built like an old-style castle, and there was this round bit at each corner. He moved into the top floor of one of them, and we had to hoist his bed in there and set it up, right by the window. His doctor told him he needed lots of light for something in his skin.”

That was probably true, I thought. Some skin complaints responded well to exposure to sunlight.

“I thought it was because he wanted to know if the colonel was anywhere about, myself”, she sniffed. “The stairs leading up creaked something awful, so there was no way that horrible man could drop in without his knowing he was coming. But the colonel hardly ever went up there. He just checked us all in and out, and made sure we weren't smuggling out messages or anything. He was horrid!”

I think Cas was about to lead us out when she suddenly spoke up again.

“Oh, and there was the mirror.”

“What about the mirror?” Cas asked.

“He broke a mirror that was hanging on the wall of his new room”, she said. “Seven years bad luck, I remember thinking, though the poor gentleman didn't have seven months left, as it turned out. I loaned him one of mine, a small hand-held thing on a stand.”

“Thank you, madam”, Cas said. “You have been most helpful. We shall not impinge on your goodwill any longer, and I shall communicate any findings to you here, if I may.”

IV

On the way back to our lodgings, Cas asked Mr. Singer where Colonel Carruthers was now.

“Still at Astrakhan”, he said morosely. “Probably sold off half the contents by now, just in case he loses. Poor Roger. Is there any hope, do you think?”

“It all depends on the butler, Jackson”, Cas said. “I see that he is with his master in London just now, so we shall see him immediately on our return there. Will you be accompanying us?”

“I think I shall”, he said. “I am sure I can find rooms for a while.”

“Mrs. Harvelle will have a spare room, as one of her tenants has moved elsewhere after the accident”, Cas offered. “Her rooms are excellent, and her cooking plain but copious.”

“Sounds my sort of gal!” Mr Singer beamed.

'Gal?' I thought. Honestly! These Americans!

+~+~+

We duly returned to Baker Street the next day. Fortunately the damage to both 221 and 221B had been minor, whilst the builders were still working on 221A. Inside the solid Georgian walls of our house, however, all was relatively peaceful. 

We had obtained a meeting with the butler the same day, for he came to Baker Street to meet us. I was a little surprised that Mr. Singer had not returned upstairs, as he had gone down to talk with Mrs. Harvelle over some matter. Jackson himself was about forty years of age, debonair and assured as only a good English butler can be. His expression on the mention of his late employer's nephew was one of utter disdain.

“First, I want to reassure you that everything you say in these walls will remain confidential”, Cas said. “I already know a great deal about what happened at Astrakhan, but I need you to fill in several important gaps in that knowledge. I know, for example, that at some point in his last few weeks, the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer gave you a list. What was it about?”

The look on the butler's face was verging on startled at Cas' apparent omniscience. He hesitated before speaking.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer wanted to return a book to the library, and for me to pick up three items from the grocery store”, he said.

I thought that rather odd. A list for just three items?

“Why did he not send the maid?” Cas asked.

The butler reddened.

“Colonel Carruthers insisted on searching anyone who left the building carrying anything, sir”, he said loftily. “Miss Bayley told him that if he laid one hand on her, she would scream, resign and fetch the police, so her sent her back downstairs. I offered to go in her place.”

“Do you remember the book title?” Cas asked.

The butler shook his head.

“It was something to do with Greek history, sir, but I do not speak the language.”

“Do you remember the items on the list?” Cas asked. 

“Perfectly, sir. Five red apples, two tins of custard powder and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce.”

“You went to the grocery store first, and then onto the library?”

The butler seemed to hesitate for some reason.

“Yes, sir”, he said.

“Did you meet anyone at either place?” Cas asked.

“I saw Mrs. Funnel from Little Giddings at the store, sir.”

Cas sat back and looked at our visitor. There was a pointed silence.

“You are a good and faithful servant”, he said. “You have not told me several things, but I know all. Do not worry. All will be resolved, possibly even by the end of today, and if you leave me your master's card, I shall communicate any developments to you.”

The butler looked distinctly unsettled, but nodded. He stood up.

“Thank you, sir”, he said, bowing before he left.

+~+~+

“My only regret”, Cas said later as he pulled out the extension to our table, “is that I am unable to confront that scoundrel of a colonel over his actions. Though he will learn of the failure of his scheme soon enough. Perhaps you had better go down and retrieve Mr. Singer.”

“Retrieve him from where?” I asked. Cas chuckled.

“He has spent the day talking with Mrs. Harvelle in her room”, he said. “It seems our Mancunian friend may indeed be on the point of becoming a more permanent fixture around here.”

I was saved a trip by a knock at our door, and I opened it to find Mr. Singer, Mr. Bradstreet and two strange alphas standing outside. I ushered them in, and soon we were all seated around the table. Rather oddly as it was mid-afternoon, Cas turned on the large table-lamp.

“Now”, he said, “we are assembled today to hear the reading of a will, specifically the last will and testament of Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer. Mr. Benezet, Mr. Wallace, thank you both for returning to England at such short notice. If you please?”

He held out his hand expectantly to the shorter of the two unknown men, who hesitated only briefly before pulling open the briefcase he was carrying and extracting a sheet of blue paper. Cas took it and placed it before a clearly bewildered Mr. Bradstreet.

“Sir, this is but a shopping-list!” he proclaimed.

V

Cas smiled.

“Gentlemen, allow me to tell you a story”, he said. “It concerns an elderly man who is dying, and who is unfortunate enough to have fallen into the clutches of a grasping nephew. The current terms of the estate inheritance rules mean that said nephew has a chance of claiming the estate from the rightful heir, the man's grandson, but said nephew has an iron grip on the household, so there is no way the dying man can do anything.”

“Or is there? Our hero is much cleverer than his unwanted watchdog gives him credit for. He hatches a most cunning and excellent plan. First, he persuades his doctor that he needs the light, so he can be moved to the front of the house. From the description we had, we know the new room was high and exposed, far inferior to his own bedroom, yet he wanted to be there. Why? My answer is simple. From that room, he could see directly to the house of his friends across the road. And if he could see, he could also signal.”

I noticed how the two alphas had both gone red.

“He is careful”, Cas went on. “He monitors his nephew's movements, so he knows when he is inside the house. He uses those times to flash heliographic messages across, using the mirror he has borrowed from a maid. Sure enough, eventually his friend spots them, realizes what is going on, and communication is established.”

“Time is short, and our man sends a message that, at a certain date in the near future, a piece of paper will be taken out of the house to a place where his friend and his friend's associate should be ready. But the man knows that any paper removed from the house is checked. So what does he do?” Cas paused, and looked round at us all. “He changes his diet!”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why?”

“It was the cook's remark about ketchup that gave me the clue”, Cas said. “Though not so much the ketchup, but the lemon that replaced it. Our hero knows that whatever he writes down will be checked by his nephew. So he silently saves the lemon slices, and from them he squeezes enough lemon juice to create a form of what is called evanescent ink. He is careful not to underestimate his nephew, knowing that if he had suddenly asked for a whole lemon from the kitchen, it might have roused his suspicions. ”

Cas took the letter and held it against the lamp. Slowly, faint brown markings began to appear between the blue ink, and the lawyer leaned forward in anticipation.

“I can tell you”, Cas said, “that English law has already had one instance of where a famous prankster wrote a final will in evanescent ink, and a judge decided that as it was clearly his intent and was both signed and witnessed, it was legal. Ferrers versus Mobley, from 'Seventy-Two.”

“But the will was not witnessed!” I objected.

Cas gestured to the two strangers. 

“Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace knew to meet the butler in the library at a certain time on a certain date”, he said. “Jackson did not tell us, but he was smart enough to suspect his master's plan. He went along with it, and obligingly left the 'shopping list' in the library for our friends here to witness, who would then keep it safe. Unfortunately business called them away to Ireland just before their friend passed on. I found, as I had suspected, that the colonel had some inkling that they had something, or perhaps he was just making doubly sure, for they received at least two telegrams purporting to come from Mr. Smith-Mortimer saying that all was well. When I found these gentlemen and alerted them to the truth, they rushed back at once.”

“The colonel could not have hoped to get away with it”, I said.

“He could have stripped the estate bare whilst the confusion continued”, Cas said. “Indeed, we will probably have to employ Balthazar's offices to retrieve what he has doubtless stolen already.

+~+~+

Annoyingly if predictably, Cas turned out to be correct. Colonel Carruthers had already enriched himself from the estate, but Cas' brother was able to seize back virtually all his ill-gotten gains, and young Roger Smith-Mortimer (as he chose to become) came into his full inheritance nine years later. The 'invisible will' also yielded small but welcome inheritances for the cook, the maid and the butler for services rendered. The manservant, John Wishaw, also got something - a book on how to be a better servant!

+~+~+

Our next case would concern someone who knew exactly where a woman's place in society should be – and would end in me being covered in glitter!


	7. Case 74: After-School Special (1894)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez'.

Foreword: I am sure my estimable readers will recall that this case was published some ten years after the events described herein, well 'out of sequence' in my list of published works. Whilst I usually respect the rights of minors to privacy, this person's subsequent criminal career, which resulted eventually in her rightful execution for willful murder when she was barely twenty-one years of age, means I have no such scruples in this case. Also, at Cas' insistence – the bastard! - I include the reason as to why I ended the Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez covered in glitter. And why I would never be able to view a teacher in the same light again!

I

This case arose out of a piece of faux jewellery, probably worth no more than a few shillings at most. Yet it led to a second case involving politics, dark dealings and, some time later, a marriage proposal. As such, it deserves it place in the ‘Castiel Canon’, as my readers (I refuse to use my publisher's ghastly phrase ‘my fandom’) apparently term it. It is a hard life, being an author.

And how Cas managed to catch my eye just as I was thinking the word 'hard', I do not know! What ensued was most definitely a manly blush!  
   


Yes it was!

+~+~+

Appropriately enough, the case started on All Hallow’s Eve, which fell on a Wednesday of that year. The first hint of the case had been when Mrs. Harvelle herself had brought our breakfast up the Wednesday prior. This in itself was unusual, as this job was by habit delegated to one of her two maids. It was not the sort of thing that a gentleman could easily comment on, however, especially when he was scared to death by a landlady who kept more than one loaded gun in the house and knew how to use every single one of them.  
   
I cannot say how much it irked me that Cas knew the reason for this change, as was evinced by his first words. Though I was feeling quite kindly disposed towards him at that moment, as the day before he had praised my final draft of 'Lazarus Rising', the story featuring his reappearance and his 'escape from Reichenbach', before I had dispatched it to the publishers. It had been one of the most difficult stories to get right, and at one point I had torn up all my notes in frustration and stared again from scratch. Nor had I forgotten my promise to Miss Ivy Haverstock, and a signed copy had been sent by courier to St. Faith's.  
   
“I see that there was a suffragist meeting in Bayswater last night”, Cas said blithely.  
   
Mrs. Harvelle tensed as she was laying out the breakfast things, but said nothing.  
   
“You are concerned over your daughter”, he said calmingly.  
   
“She persuaded Bobby to take her to that meeting!” Mrs. Harvelle said, sounding almost angry. “Fools, both of them!”  
   
I wondered when Mr. Robert Singer, our recent acquaintance from Manchester, had evolved into ‘Bobby’, but said nothing.  
   
“I saw her going off to work this morning”, Cas said. “The white brooch she was wearing is quite openly political.”  
   
“I know”, Mrs. Harvelle admitted. “I only hope the girl does not get into trouble over it.”  
   
None of us had any idea then as to just how much trouble young Miss Harvelle was about to get into.  
   
+~+~+  
   
On that particular day, Cas and I had a dinner appointment with Mrs. Bruce, one of our surgery’s main beneficiaries. It would be truer to say that I had an appointment with the lady, but that I had been asked (begged) to bring my clever friend with me, and Cas had obligingly agreed to come along. We enjoyed a tolerable evening out, except for Mrs. Bruce’s two daughters both acting far too coquettishly towards my friend (and one of them was engaged, for Heaven's sake!). I could not take the scruffy little urchin anywhere!

As the evening was relatively mild we decided to walk the short distance back home rather than take a cab. We arrived back to 221B safely enough, but on entering the building heard the unmistakable sound of an argument going on between Mrs. Harvelle and her daughter. I knew from experience that the ladies were of similar temperaments, and when they clashed, it was better not to be in the same room. And preferably not in the same town.  
   
Coward that I was, I would have bolted upstairs and waited for them to approach us the next day if they had required any assistance. Instead, Cas dragged me bodily forwards – it was totally unfair that he was stronger than me, though I supposed there were compensations – and we were knocking at Mrs. Harvelle’s door before I could object, or run. It was opened by a worried-looking Mr. Singer, whose faced cleared immediately on seeing us.  
   
“Thank the Lord you are here!” he said fervently. “Perhaps you can sort out this unholy mess!”  
   
+~+~+  
   
Between the Harvelle ladies talking over each other and Mr. Singer wringing his hands in the background, we slowly managed to piece together the day’s events which, it seemed, had culminated in Miss Harvelle being suspended from her employment as a teacher at the Fairleigh Academy for Girls in Marylebone. It had always been a source of amazement to me that this firecracker of a young lady had ended up as a teacher, yet somehow she fitted into the job perfectly. It was claimed – and I disbelieved it the minute I heard it – that she had tried to steal a set of commemorative pure gold pince-nez from the office of the headmistress, Miss Brazen. Not only would Miss Harvelle have no need of such a trinket, she was as honest as the day was long. I would have staked my reputation on that.  
   
“Ladies!” Cas said, in a much sharper tone than he normally used. “Now, I am of course at your disposal in this matter, but even the most mundane of consulting detectives needs the full facts of the case before they can achieve anything. Miss Harvelle, you will come upstairs with the doctor and I, whilst you, Mrs. Harvelle, will prepare us each a strong coffee – I know you do not usually partake, Miss Harvelle, but needs must – and you shall then recite what you know to us both. The doctor will take his notes, and we shall proceed from there.”  
   
When he chose to exert it, Cas could have an almost hypnotic effect on those around him, and ten minutes later Miss Harvelle was duly telling us all about her troubles.  
   
“It all started with the new term”, she said. “The Academy was a three-form school last year, and I taught the smallest children, ages five to seven. But the school was doing so well that Ursula – sorry, Miss Brazen, the headmistress – decided to expand and hire another teacher.”  
   
“And you and this new teacher have not been compatible?” Cas asked.  
   
She nodded.  
   
“The other two staff are fine. Miss Wittering teaches the youngest class now, and she is the quietest thing imaginable. Miss Parrot – she, too, is like her name; can talk the hind leg off a donkey, but she is all right, I suppose. She teaches the eight- and nine-year-olds, whilst I now have mostly seven-year-olds, with a few advanced sixes and slower eights. No, it is the new teacher, Miss Vyne. She insists the top class address her as 'Cordelia', which is terribly modern. Rather risky, as Miss Brazen only employed her on a term’s trial.”  
   
“But if you leave mid-term, that leaves Miss Brazen short one teacher at a time when few are looking for new posts”, Cas observed, “and thus places Miss Vyne in a stronger position. Tell me; when you went in with that brooch, did Miss Brazen object?”  
   
“No”, Miss Harvelle said. “Of course I went straight to her that day and stated why I was wearing it, and that of course I would take it off if she felt it unwelcome, but she said that whilst she was no campaigner herself, she was in broad sympathy with the suffragist movement, and provided I did not wear it when parents were around, she had no issues with it. She has no politics herself – she distrusts all politicians equally, she says – but she demands that the older girls are taught the basics of the subject.”  
   
“Would that not mean you having to take it off at the start and finish of each day when the parents come in?” I asked.  
   
She looked at me in surprise.  
   
“Doctor”, she said firmly, “Miss Brazen does not allow parents into the school buildings at all, except for parents' evenings and scheduled appointments. The last time one of them complained about it, they were invited to take their child and their fees elsewhere!”  
   
I was beginning to form a highly favourable mental picture of this Miss Brazen.  
   
“Did the other two teaches object to the brooch?” Cas asked. “It seems rather coincidental that your troubles occurred so soon after first wearing it.”  
   
“Miss Wittering did not understand it, even when I tried to explain it to her”, Miss Harvelle laughed. “Miss Parrot said that if she ever married, she would expect to ‘love, honour and obey’ her husband. Though at her age, I would deem such an event unlikely, for which London’s men – or at least their eardrums - should be grateful!”

I added a quick drawing of a cat next to my notes.  
   
“How, in your opinion, would Miss Brazen react to my taking an interest in the case?” Cas asked.  
   
Miss Harvelle grinned knowingly.  
   
“From the fact she has every issue of the Strand magazine on her bookshelf, I would say she might be amenable.”  
   
II  
   
About the only good thing of the whole sorry affair was that it broke when it did. Many schools, Fairleigh included, gave their students All Saints’ Day off as a holiday, and as that fell on a Thursday, some stayed closed for the Friday as well. The Academy, Miss Harvelle told us, was planning to close to the children on both days but have a parents’ evening on the Friday, as this would enable them to accommodate those who had to work in the evenings by starting slots in the early afternoon. With Miss Harvelle's suspension, it was therefore even more urgent that the case be cleared up quickly.  
   
Knowing that Miss Brazen would be in school all day Thursday, Cas decided to take a chance and turn up unannounced, on the basis that at least we could seek an appointment. As things turned out however the precaution was unnecessary, for on hearing who had called, Miss Brazen told her secretary to send us straight in.  
   
Miss Ursula Brazen was possibly in her fifties; like many elderly teachers she had an indefinable quality about her that seemed ageless, and made her real age hard to detect. She was short and stout whereas Miss Ivy Haverstock had been tall and thin, but both women had the same aura of power about them. She was wearing a dark blue, almost black dress, and everything about her office evinced certainty about her position at the top of things. This was definitely a woman who was used to getting her own way, the unchallenged Queen of her Realm.  
   
She still simpered at Cas, though! Honestly!  
   
“My sincerest apologies for troubling you, madam”, Cas said, bowing deeply before he sat down. “I am a friend of Miss Harvelle, and I must tell you from the start that I am investigating the claim that she stole a pair of pince-nez from you. I am of course fully conversant with the fact that if she did not, then another staff member is most likely to be implicated, but I intend to find out the truth in this matter. Are you in a position to help me?”

She sighed.

“Were it down to me alone”, she said ruefully, “I would be inclined to believe Miss Harvelle. But in the circumstances, with the stolen items found in her possession in front of witnesses, I had to act. I trust that you see that.”

“Of course”, Cas said. “I wish to establish certain facts about the case, and then to proceed from there. Is the stolen item the one you are wearing this moment?”

She shook her head.

“This is my regular pair, for my short-sightedness”, she said. “The stolen ones were twenty-four carat gold, but not real spectacles. These have become my trademark, you see, and the governors of the school thought it fitting to present me with a replica of them to mark twenty-five years of service, although I have only been head here for five of those.”

“Yet you created this place, and have already established its reputation at a time when education is meant to be free for all”, Cas said. “That people are willing to pay for quality is, I would presume to judge, a fair indicator.”

Miss Brazen blushed. If she simpered again, I would.... well, pout, probably.

“Now”, Cas said, shooting me a side-glance that said he was reading my mind perfectly as usual, “to the circumstances of the disappearance. Were you aware that the pince-nez were missing at the time they were found?”

“Not as such”, she said. “As a non-functioning item they are kept in the cabinet with the school trophies, which is over there. It impresses the parents, when they come for entry interviews and other things. They are on display towards the centre of the cabinet, and they were definitely there on the morning in question. I noted that the cabinet itself was unlocked when I came in that morning, which was most unusual.”

“Who has keys to it?” Cas asked.

“Myself, Miss Brewster, my secretary, and Mr. Kenwright, the caretaker. As you can see, I keep mine on me at all times. Miss Brewster, however, had been away until this week, visiting her sick sister in Swansea. She had no call to check the keys until I asked her to do so that morning; I believe that all the teachers knew they were in her office, in an unlocked drawer.”

“Miss Harvelle did not mention a Mr. Kenwright”, Cas said. “Does he interact with the teaching staff at all?”

Miss Brazen pursed her lips. 

“It is a difficult situation”, she admitted at last. “When I looked into acquiring this site, I had to negotiate with the previous owner, who was moving his business to Yorkshire. Mr. Kenwright was the night-watchman, and Mr. Bullington asked me to take him on as a favour, in return for selling me the property. Technically I do not have to keep him on, but I feel morally obligated. He is quite elderly, and I doubt he would easily find employment elsewhere.”

“You are not happy with his work?” Cas asked.

“He does the bare minimum”, Miss Brazen said, “which in the world of education is galling in itself. Also, he has of late clashed with Miss Vyne, my new teacher. My other staff always make the children tidy their classrooms before they go home, which is quite right and proper, but dear Cordelia believes in 'free expression'. She is very 'modern'.”

I doubt anyone has ever squeezed quite so much venom into that six-letter word.

“Who spotted the theft?” Cas asked.

“A girl called Arabella Buckley, one of our eldest”, Miss Brazen said. “She was in here for a bullying incident I was investigating. She said nothing to me, which I suppose is understandable, but went and reported it to her teacher Miss Vyne. You do not think the girl may be involved at all, surely?”

“I am rather afraid she may have been”, Cas said gravely. “Would I be allowed to approach Miss Brewster for her address?”

“Of course", the headmistress smiled.

III

Cas briefly examined the returned pince-nez, and we visited Miss Harvelle's classroom before leaving, but there seemed to be nothing of any import in either instance. Miss Brewster provided us with Miss Arabella Buckley's address before we left, and one look at her told me that news of Cas' investigating the case would soon be spread around. Indeed, I would not have put it past the secretary to detour to the other teachers' houses on her way home so she could more quickly pass on the gossip.

The Buckleys lived in Mayfair, in an elegant town house. Once we were admitted, it quickly became clear that both Mr. and Mrs. Buckley were not going to be co-operative.

“I do not care what reputation you have, Mr. Novak”, Mrs. Buckley sniffed. “You are most definitely not going to speak to sweet, innocent Arabella.”

Cas stood up.

“I see this is pointless”, he said gravely, and in a way I quite understand your viewpoint as parents. Indeed, I admire you for the brave stand you are taking over this matter.”

Both the Buckleys flinched at that.

“What do you mean, brave?” Mr. Buckley demanded. 

Cas sighed.

“Well, I merely wanted confirmation of a regrettably inadvisable deed done by your daughter, which I know her to have committed”, he said with a shrug. “And as a private detective, that would have been that. But once the police are called in....”

“Police!” Mrs. Buckley shrieked.

“I am afraid it is quite unavoidable”, Cas said gently. “The publicity over an act committed at such a renowned school will, of course, be absolutely horrendous. It may even reach the national newspapers, based as they are so close at hand. But perhaps the local station might be prevailed upon to place a policeman outside your door here, to deter the vultures of the press.”

“Ye Gods, Mr. Novak, what has my daughter done?” Mr. Buckley almost yelled.

“Been a willing accomplice in a crime that has impacted on a daughter of a friend of mine”, Cas said. “As such, of course, I myself would normally be pushing the police to prosecute to the full extent of the law, though mercifully your daughter is too young for jail....”

Mr. Buckley shot to his feet and bolted across to the door, which he pulled open.

“Bella!” he roared. 

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and moments later a sulky-looking young girl of about eleven years of age entered the room. She had an air of her own consequence which marked her out all too well as her parents' child, but she was also clearly anxious. Cas walked over to her, then took out his notebook and wrote something on it. 

“Miss Buckley”, he said gravely, “if you are honest with me, we can limit ourselves to one question. Answer it truthfully, and I will endeavour to persuade Miss Brazen to be merciful, little though your actions merit such an approach. Lie to me, and I will equally endeavour to make your next few years decidedly interesting. My question is this. Yesterday, a person gave you a set of instructions pertaining to the theft of Miss Brazen's golden pince-nez. Is this the name of that person?”

He showed the notebook to the trembling girl, who nodded but said nothing. Cas turned to her parents.

“Although her recent actions denote an utter lack of it, I shall leave it to your daughter's conscience to inform you what heinous act she was involved in”, he said grimly. “If I am successful in bringing her co-conspirator to book, I will keep my word and represent to Miss Brazen that Arabella played only a minor part in this act. Good day, sir, madam. Miss Buckley.”

He swept from the room, and I hurried after him, though not before I heard the three people we left behind fall to arguing.

+~+~+

I should comment at this point that, whilst Cas always defended me against accusations that I was nothing more than a glorified biographer, I rarely felt that I ever really contributed to his solving of any of our cases together. This, however, was an exception, as it was our conversation on our way back from Mayfair which (inadvertently, of course) showed Cas how his criminal might be exposed.

We had discussed various aspects of the case, my friend naturally refusing to enlighten me as to the name he has shown young Miss Buckley, when he turned and asked me about whether I would publish this case (leaving the schoolgirl's part out, of course). After having a run of four major cases where I could not share the details with the public for one reason or another – the stories later published as 'Sharp Teeth', 'Home', 'Bloodlines' and 'Weekend At Bobby's' - I said that I most probably would.

“Though I shall probably call it something idiotic like 'The Case of the Case'”, I said with a smile.

He looked at me in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“The case the pince-nez were in”, I explained. 

He stared at me for a moment, then shot to his feet – a dangerous exercise in a moving London cab – and rapped on the roof for the driver's attention.

“Driver, Fairleigh Academy!” he yelled. “As fast as you can!”

I stared at him in confusion. What on earth was going on?

IV

Miss Brazen was surprised to see us back in her offices, and out of breath. Cas had raced in from the cab, leaving me to pay, and I had had to run to catch him up.

“Miss Brazen”, Cas said, recovering his breath, “earlier today I most foolishly forgot to ask you a key question in the investigation. Thanks to the good doctor here whose wits, unlike mine, were where they should have been, I was reminded on the way back from Miss Buckley's house. The pince-nez – were they in a presentation case when they were given to you?”

She looked as confused as I felt at the question. 

“Yes”, she said. “Finest tortoise-shell. I did think it odd that the pince-nez were taken but the case was left behind; the latter is probably worth not that much less.”

Cas heaved a sight of relief.

“Excellent!” he said. “Then we have a chance to not just catch our thief tomorrow morning, well before the parents start arriving at your school, but to prove the case against them to an extent that it will stand up in court. Now here is what we have to do....”

+~+~+

Half-past ten the following morning found Cas, myself, Mr. Kenwright, Miss Brewster and the four teachers all sat in Miss Harvelle's classroom. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air, and I noted that Miss Harvelle sat nearer to Cas rather than her fellow teachers. Fortunately Miss Brazen bustled into the room at that moment, and took Mr. Harvelle's teacher's chair. She nodded to Cas, who stood up.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, he began, “we are here today to find the person responsible for the theft of Miss Brazen's commemorative golden pince-nez. Certain indications in my early inquiries pointed me to one person in particular, and by late yesterday I was certain that I was right. Regrettably, however, the Metropolitan Police tend to demand rather more in the way of proof than 'Mr. Castiel Novak thinks'. So, I laid a trap.”

“Acting on my advice, Miss Brazen told her secretary this morning that she was certain that the identity of the thief could be easily proved by the use of finger-prints.”

“Stuff and nonsense”, Miss Vyne said, sounding almost angry. “Anyone with any sense would have wiped the prints off the things.”

Cas smiled.

“Indeed”, he said. “My own examination of the pince-nez showed no prints on them whatsoever, and I thought no more of it – until my dear friend Doctor Winchester made a remark which showed me the error of my ways! The pince-nez themselves might be cleaned – but the expensive presentation case that came with them was made of soft tortoise-shell, which records finger prints to a considerable extent.”

Someone drew a breath, though I did not see who it was. 

“Miss Brazen told her secretary two things this morning”, Cas said. “First, that she had to go out on an errand that would take her to Paddington, and second, that a friend of mine would be coming later this afternoon with some equipment which would be able to lift such a print. I think I can safely say that I am possibly the only man in London Town who has ever caused the great Miss Brazen to tell a lie. In telling the secretary, of course, she could be sure the whole school would know sooner or later.”

Miss Brewster blushed. Cas turned to her.

“I almost wish I had been wrong”, he said. “Miss Brazen?”

The headmistress opened her reticule and withdrew a small handkerchief, which she passed to Cas. He placed it on the table in front of Miss Brewster, and opened it out. There were some ugly brown marks in the corner.

“I am afraid I also instructed Miss Brazen to send you here with the others, then to search your desk for this item”, he said. “I felt it likely that you would not come to a meeting like this with an incriminating item on your person. Rubbing hard at tortoise-shell leaves an unmistakable brown stain on a material as delicate as a lady's handkerchief.”

Miss Brewster stared at him in silence.

“Knowing what you do about the various girls' disciplinary records”, Cas said, “it was easy for you to single out Arabella Buckley as the one most likely to help you, and incriminate a teacher. You disliked Miss Harvelle because she openly supported votes for women, and your dislike only intensified when Miss Brazen chose to give her at least tacit support. It was a shameful thing that you did, madam.”

There was a knock at the door and Mr. Kenwright, who was standing nearest, opened it, Two policemen entered. Miss Brewster stood up.

“And I am not sorry!” she said stiffly. “A woman's place is in the home, and that is the way it will always be!”

She stormed out, the policemen following in her wake. Miss Brazen rapped the table, drawing everyone's attention back to herself.

“Ladies”, she said firmly, “we have parental visits to prepare for. And we owe Mr. Novak and Doctor Winchester a vote of thanks for clearing all our names.”

“Actually, the doctor and I are staying on for a few hours”, Cas said with a smile. “Miss Harvelle wants her classroom just right for the visits which start in” - he looked at his watch - “two hours but a few minutes. Since she has missed a day, we shall help her catch up.”

V

Four hours later, we made it back to Baker Street. It had taken much effort to get Miss Harvelle's room to the standard she wished, and matters had not been helped when a tube of gold glitter had erupted over me whilst I was trying to improve a display. My co-workers' sniggering did not improve my mood, either.

I noticed that Cas had brought something back from the school, but thought little of it at the time, and we ate our dinner in a comfortable peace. Until I mused that this was the second case since Cas' return with a scholastic flavour. He gave me an odd look, then got up and told me to come to his room in five minutes' time. Naked. I gulped.

Five minutes later, I knocked at the door wearing nothing but a grin that was somewhere between hopeful and fearful. On hearing Cas' voice bidding me enter, I pushed the door open – and my heart skipped at least one beat. Cas had pulled the large wooden chair out into the middle of the room and was sat on it, wearing a teacher's black gown and cap, and wielding a paddle. He gazed pointedly at me, and I shuddered, but walked over and positioned myself across his lap.

“Hands on the floor!” he commanded. I did so, feeling his hard cock pushing into my side. Then the paddle struck my buttocks, and I yelped. 

“Remember!” he hissed. “One word from you, and I will stop. This is your choice, Dean!”

I nodded, only dimly aware that he might not notice, and bit back a second cry as he struck again. He gave me six of the best, and followed them up with six more, but I refrained from crying out, even though my backside hurt like never before. Then he gently raised me and led me over to the bed where he laid me out. I wondered if he was going to take me whilst my buttocks were still red and raw, but of course he surprised me. I felt the cold drip of some sort of unguent onto my open wounds, and then he was gently rubbing it in, whispering words of love as he worked. Finally he finished, and managed to slide himself underneath me so I was totally sleeping on him. How he bore my greater weight on his small frame always made me wonder, but I knew sleeping on my back – or even my side – was not an option, and I just snuggled into him.

God, I so loved this man!

+~+~+

Our next case would involve Merridew of abominable memory – and I would make the mistake of losing my temper with Cas....


	8. Case 75: Appointment In Samarra (1894-1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'Merridew, of abominable memory'.

I

I am sure that when they read it, my readers will be somewhat surprised at the inclusion of this particular case in 'the Castiel Canon'. Cas was brought in late to this case, and although he helped prevent the flight of the criminal involved, that is not what is of such import. No, this is included because of a chain of events that led to an emotional exchange between myself and my friend, in which the relationship between Cas and myself took a most definitive step forward - having so nearly been brought to a sudden and painful end.

Mr. Balthazar Novak's next visit to Baker Street was tempered by the fact that he was accompanied by his brother Gabriel who, I supposed, was marginally the lesser of the two evils. I knew that he, like his older brother, worked for Her Majesty's government, but unlike him, he did not make the frequent calls on Cas' good nature in the blithe expectation (always correct) that they would be instantly met. It turned out that Balthazar Novak was indeed to make further demands on poor Cas, though not of the usual nature.

“Last year”, the tall blond beta began, “I got Gabriel a post on the RMS Mercian because I wanted him to go and investigate a small matter I had on hand in Rome. Naturally he demanded a free cruise back – and that was when he stumbled across a problem which is decidedly delicate.”

I knew by 'delicate' our unwelcome guest meant 'politically explosive', though I was quietly pleased that it was not only Cas who got imposed upon in this way. I wondered idly whether a free trip was heading our way, too.

“Gabriel spent a couple of weeks at Gibraltar, because the base commander found out he could cook just as half his own staff went down with the winter flu, and a major Admiralty inspection due the following week”, the eldest Novak explained. “So shortstack here was commandeered for a while.”

“Shortstack here may soon be telling mummy and daddy about someone's interesting collection of literature”, Gabriel said in a sing-song voice. His older brother blushed, and glared at him.

“Ahem. A young man, severely dehydrated, collapsed at the base gates, and was brought into the hospital”, Balthazar Novak went on, his face now very red. “He was diagnosed with a case of pseudo-leprosy, which was presumably why they threw him off his ship - and that ship, gentlemen, was a slave ship!”

To say we were both astonished would be an understatement. The British government had outlawed the evil slave trade at the start of the century, abolishing slavery itself a few decades later. Ever since, the Royal Navy had been patrolling the world's oceans and gradually forcing the business ever back into the dark corners it had emerged from, mostly the Mohammedan countries of Africa and the East Indies. Even there the British influence was attacking it; the recent exchange with Germany of Heligoland for the East African island of Zanzibar was primarily to attack the trade from the latter as a base.

“Where did this poor man come from?” I asked. I was not prepared for the answer.

“Ireland”, the eldest Novak said grimly.

A British slave!

+~+~+

Balthazar Novak placed a drawing on the desk. It showed a round-jawed Victorian businessman, balding but clearly very pleased with himself.

“Richard 'the Roman' Merridew”, he said heavily. “Known, fittingly, as Dick. Slave trader as we head towards the twentieth century. It's frankly abominable!”

“Why do you not arrest him?” I asked curiously. 

“It is something to do with where he takes the slaves, is it not?” Cas asked. Balthazar Novak nodded.

“Mr. Merridew has dual citizenship”, he explained. “The island of Samarra lies just north of the Ionian Islands, which we foolishly gave back to those ungrateful Greeks back in 'Sixty-Four. The place sits slap bang between the mess that is Italy on one side and the bigger mess that is the Ottoman Empire on the other. When this European war finally breaks out – and break out it will, mark my words – then having a friendly naval base there will be of great import, especially if we end up fighting the Ottomans. And the Italians; it's about fifty-fifty at the moment as to which way they'll break.”

“But the Ottomans are our allies”, I objected, “and we have spent the past century trying to save them from the Russian Bear!”

“Constantinople can be used to make many words, but gratitude is not amongst them”, Balthazar Novak said primly. “The point is this. 'Richard the Roman', as he prefers to be known, is making play with an old treaty between the island's king back in sixteen hundred and something-or-other and that useless lump Henry the Eighth. Basically it allows the King of Samarra to grant two licences a year to merchants who then get diplomatic immunity, which renders them untouchable unless they actually kill someone.”

“So you cannot touch the man without risking a diplomatic incident near a major trade route of ours”, Cas said. “That is difficult. May I ask when he was granted his current licence?”

“They always run from the start of the year”, his brother answered, “so the rat will need to be back on Samarra by the end of the month. The licence only has any force if it is granted by the island's current ruler, a governor now, in person.”

“How in blazes are they getting citizens of the Empire from under our noses?” I growled. “It's barbaric!”

“Merridew's ship, the 'Imperator Ricardus', sails from Liverpool”, Balthazar explained, “and calls in at Queenstown before sailing through the Straits to home. Stopping him whilst he is licensed would cause an international incident, and with the situation abroad as it is just now, that is not something Great Britain wants to do.”

Especially for Irish slaves, I thought cynically but did not say. My thoughts must have showed in my face, however.

“If you have ever looked at a map of the Irish coast, doctor”, the lounge-lizard said a little acidly, “you will see that it is perforated with hundreds of small bays. With the current demands on Her Majesty's fleet, we cannot spare a ship to shadow the Imperator Ricardus on the off-chance she slips into one, and even if we could, we dare not risk stopping her. The Sublime Porte would be less than impressed, even though Samarra is technically no longer an Ottoman possession.”

“When does the ship sail?” Cas asked.

“The tenth, a week today”, Balthazar answered. “That gets her to Oteria, the capital and only port of Samarra, on the twenty-seventh, four days in hand. Why?”

Cas grinned, and turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said, “it looks like we may be travelling this festive season!”

II

I was surprised when Cas asked me if I could be free to travel north on the tenth, the very day of the Imperator Ricardus' sailing, but I guessed that he must have had his reasons. Those quickly became apparent when we arrived in the docks of the Lancashire port city to find the ship not only still there, but with a large gash running all the way down one side. 

“What happened?” I wondered.

“The 'City of Bath' collided with her as she left this morning”, Cas explained.

I looked at him in surprise. How could he know that?

“Balthazar paid the other ship's captain”, Cas grinned. “The damage is less than I had hoped, which is why we are here.”

I did not get it, and we spent most of the afternoon questioning an assortment of dock labourers on the quayside, most of whom were surly and unco-operative. The few that would talk were, I noted, handsomely recompensed for their time and courtesy, but I did not see that Cas learned much, and said so after we had checked into a hotel for the night.

“I did not expect to learn anything”, Cas said. “That was not the point of the exercise.”

“Then what was the point?” I asked, a trifle irritably. It had snowed for much of the day, and the room fire was doing little to make things better. I was freezing!

“I wished Mr. Merridew to become aware of my interest in his dealings”, Cas said. “Once he knows that, he will realize that the collision this morning was no accident, and that the British government is endeavouring to prevent his return to renew his licence before the end of the month. He has been more than a little foolish to trade this late in the season.”

“Then what?” I asked, rubbing my hands together. 

“What would you do in his position?” Cas countered.

“Get home as quickly as possible”, I said. “Take a train – probably hire a special if I could afford it – to London, get across the Channel and head down to Italy to make the crossing to Samarra. The British government could do little once he is in a foreign country, though they might get him at the crossing to his homeland.”

Cas shook his head.

“Mr. Merridew is smarter than that”, he said. “Trains crash, and he will know for certain that a government that can send a ship crashing into his is quite able to cause such an accident, particularly to a special where there are no innocent civilians affected. No, he will take to the seas. There are three ships leaving Liverpool over the next few days that would serve him. The 'Redgauntlet' sails to Belfast and then across to Stavanger and the Baltic. That is a risky choice, as he would not reach Lubeck until the twenty-eighth, leaving him just three days to cross Europe from top to bottom. The 'Wizard of Avalon' sails to Gibraltar and then heads out to the Canary and Azore Islands. He would reach Gibraltar on the twenty-first, giving him a clear ten days. Or the 'Isomony' sails to Cherbourg, but calls all the way round Ireland first, so does not reach France until the twenty-fifth. It is my belief that he will choose the Wizard.”

“So he will still make it home in time”, I pointed out.

Cas smiled knowingly.

“Regretfully for Mr. Merridew, all three captains are safely in Balthazar's pay”, he said. “Whichever route he takes, he will encounter further problems. I guarantee it!”

+~+~+

It had been snowing fairly lightly most of that day, and it was not quite cold enough for it to settle, but that evening the temperature plummeted, and with the forecast for the days ahead, it seemed as if we would indeed be in for a white Christmas. 

Cas had booked us into the Midland Railway Hotel, which at least meant we were a little sheltered from the bitingly cold winds that blew in off the Irish Sea. Even better, we had adjoining rooms with a connecting door. Which I took full advantage of once the maid had gone, slipping through and into his bed. It always amazed me that whilst Cas' body was so much warmer than mine, his feet were always icicle-cold, and he insisted on rubbing them against mine. Honestly, the things I put up with for that man!

It also sometimes irked me the way he read my mind. I was dwelling lightly on the case when he managed to turn round in my grasp and face me, running his hand slowly over my chest.

“Dean”, he said quietly, “this slave-trading thing.....”

He stopped, looking oddly uncertain. I stared at him across the darkness of the bed, wonderingly.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Do you ever think of yourself like that?” he whispered, so quietly I could barely hear him. I looked at him in confusion.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Bound to me, like a slave”, he said, looking almost ashamed. “I know I take the lead most of the time, and you seem to enjoy it, but I do wonder.....”

I kissed him lightly on the nose.

“Cas”, I said firmly, “I want you to take me. Right now.”

I followed up my request by running my hand up and down his rapidly-hardening cock, and he groaned. 

“Dean!”

“If you are not inside me in the next five minutes, I am going back to my bed.”

It was an idle threat; he knew as well as I did that my bed would be ice-cold, and that I would far rather spend the night with my own personal human heater. But the look of ecstasy on his face as I got him hard was replaced by one of determination, and he moved gracefully to between by legs, easing me onto my back before starting to scissor me open. I sighed contentedly.

“l...I love you so much”, I said, stammering as he got a second finger in. “And I know you would never hurt me, not like some Roman lord and his slave. One word, and you would stop, no matter how far gone you were. I will always love you, Cas.”

He swallowed hard, but carried on his ministrations, and soon had me open and ready. He was being more gentle than usual, and if possible I loved him even more for that. This beautiful mind in in an even more beautiful body loved me, and I was the one who should have felt unworthy of that love. He was everything I could ever have wanted, and more.

He was finally inside me, and gently teasing my prostate. I groaned in mock pain, and glared at him for making me wait. He smiled teasingly at me in return, and suddenly changed his angle of attack, combining it with stroking my cock with one hand and tweaking first one nipple and then the second with the other. I could not last long under such a sustained attack, and I was coming I under a minute, letting out my relief in a guttural sigh, before clamping my walls down viciously on his cock and making him come as well. He quickly wiped us both down before collapsing down on top of me, totally spent, and I hugged him to me. My life. My soul, My Cas.

III

The following day, Cas was proven right when we learned that the Wizard of Avalon, due to leave on the fourteenth, had acquired an additional passenger. We were on the quayside to watch from a safe distance as the abominable Merridew – dressed, as Balthazar had remarked, rather ridiculously in a suit with an imperial purple sash - boarded his new ship, and we waited some hours until it had sailed and was just a small dot on the horizon.

“So are we going to Gibraltar to put further pressure on him there?” I asked as we walked back to the station (I drew the line at another night in that freezing hotel). 

“We shall return to Baker Street and await developments”, Cas said. “I have a notion that this man is a cut above our average criminal. The ship has only one call to make before Gibraltar, at Queenstown in Ireland, but I would be certain the man is still on board. He is a slippery fish.”

Just how slippery emerged when we received a telegraph from the captain of the Wizard of Avalon the next day, informing us that 'Mr. Richard Merridew' was no longer a passenger aboard his ship. Mr. Balthazar Novak came round later that day, and told us that the man had caught a train across Ireland to Westport, where presumably he planned to intercept the Isomony on her way round the island. The tall blond was furious.

“My superiors think I'm an idiot for being duped like this!” he growled. “Honestly, Cassie, I don't know why I brought you in on this case.”

From the sudden tension in the air, I knew instinctively that Cas was angry. With good reason; he had always done everything he could for his family, and even though they had helped him out during the turbulent events arising from Lawrence, the ingratitude clearly stung.

“We are clearly keeping you from Her Majesty's business, Balthazar”, he said coldly. “Good day.”

His brother seemed to belatedly realize that he had crossed a line. He looked up anxiously.

“Castiel....”

“Good day”, Cas snapped, raising his newspaper to indicate that the meeting was at an end. 

His brother hesitated, but left. I waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Ungrateful lounge lizard”, I muttered.

Cas chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked. He lowered his newspaper and looked at me.

“I was thinking that too often these days, I underestimate you”, he said softly. “And that you may have been right about that man after all.” 

He stood up sharply.

“Would you be amenable to another train journey of some length?” he asked, sounding almost nervous that I might decline. As if that would happen!

“Abroad?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Not as such.”

I stared at him in confusion.

+~+~+

It was December the sixteenth, a day which would prove fateful (and nearly fatal) in Cas' and my relationship. Our cab took us to Paddington, where Cas purchased two first-class tickets for New Milford in Pembrokeshire. As per his advice, I had packed a small bag and my revolver. The day was bitterly cold again, and a white Christmas looked a near-certainty. 

Our train rumbled through England, then through the Severn Tunnel into Monmouthshire before finally entering the Principality of Wales. Cas kept checking his watch, and I asked why.

“I am thinking that Mr. Merridew is going to arrive off the ferry from Cork and Waterford”, he said. 

“But he has gone to Westport, on the west coast”, I objected. Cas shook his head.

“You forget that his ships call regularly at Queenstown”, he said, “and such a man would doubtless have agents there. It is my belief that one such disguised himself as his master, and the two swapped coats at Cork, the former then ensuring that he was followed northwards. The ferry between that port and New Milford gets in less than half an hour after the train, so we cannot afford to be late.”

The Great Western Railway lived up to its name however, and our express ground to a halt at the Pembrokeshire port station exactly on time. 

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “He still has days to run on that damned licence of his. We cannot arrest him.”

“I wish to make sure that he boards the return express”, Cas said. “You will have to stay and monitor the platform, and once the train has left, go and send a telegram to Balthazar as to what has happened. If he alights between here and London, I shall follow him and again let my brother know.”

I looked at him anxiously.

“Be careful”, I said. 

He wasn't. At least, not enough.

+~+~+

The express was the penultimate train of the day, and since the sole local train afterwards would only get me as far as Carmarthen before the trains ceased for the night, I checked myself into a small local hotel before returning to the station in time for the ferry's docking. I was more than a little alarmed when the rotund Mr. Merridew alighted flanked by two burly henchmen, and I pressed Cas to let me stay with him on the train, but he insisted we keep to our original schedule. I spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning, worried lest my friend do something brave and/or stupid.

There were no messages waiting for me the following morning, and I did not know whether that was good or bad. I had breakfast as early as I could, and the trains seemed inordinately slow as I made my way back to the capital. I reached London just after noon, and returned to Baker Street to find it almost empty. 

Almost. There was a Novak in residence, but it was definitely the wrong one. Little wonder that Mrs. Harvelle had looked so annoyed when I had seen her from the stairs. Mr. Balthazar Novak looked decidedly shifty, and my heart plummeted.

“Where's Cas?” I asked abruptly.

IV

He looked even shiftier, and I remembered that my gun was still in my bag. Loaded.

“We have good news on the Merridew front”, he said cheerfully. “He hired a special from Charing Cross this morning, but it was derailed near Dartford. Apparently the driver ignored the red flags where they were replacing worn-out rails.”

I was momentarily distracted.

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“Injured, but he'll survive”, my unwelcome guest smiled. “Though he won't be out of his hospital bed before New Year. I guarantee that.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Years of dealing with less than forthcoming patients had left me with a strong sense of when I was being lied to, even by omission.

“Where. Is. Cas?” I demanded, glaring at him.

I had never doubted that, in any fight, Mr. Balthazar Novak would easily worst me. But right now I was getting increasingly angry at his lack of forthrightness. 

“Hospital”, Balthazar muttered.

“What?” I barked. “How?”

“One of Merridew's henchmen spotted him at Bristol when he got off the train”, Balthazar Novak said, raising his hands as if in defence. They attacked him on the platform, just as the train was leaving. If it hadn't been for that stupid coat he always wears....”

I was now positively furious.

“This is all your fault!” I yelled. “That man does everything for you, and you let this happen!”

“I can't babysit him”, my guest said defensively. “He's my brother, not my wife!”

“Which hospital?” I almost snarled. 

“St. Philip's”, he said. “He's fine, just a little bruised. He'll be back today, and he'll just need rest for a bit.”

His laconic attitude was the last straw. I snarled and leaped across the room and grabbed him by his lapels, thrusting him back against the hearth. He looked startled, but did not fight back.

“I nearly lost him because of you!” I snarled. “Understand this, Balthazar Novak. If anything ever happens to him, I will hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands! Now get out!”

He looked genuinely shocked at my anger, and twisted himself out of my grip before walking swiftly to the door. He hesitated as if about to say something, but I gave him such a look that he thought better of it, and left. Once he had gone, I sank into Cas' chair – I never sat there as a rule – and shook in a mixture of anger and relief.

Pulling the blanket that smelt of him around me was just because I was cold. No other reason.

+~+~+

Cas arrived home in an ambulance that evening, and two men carried him upstairs despite his protestations. I only knew of his arrival when Mrs. Harvelle opened the door for them, and they carried him inside. I gestured to his fireside chair, and they gently placed him in it. I tipped them and they left us alone. 

The silence was positively painful.

“You are angry with me.”

I gripped my pencil so hard that it was surprising it did not snap. 

“They recognized you because of that bloody coat”, I snapped. I regretted it the moment I spoke; he was in no shape to cope with a moody room-mate.

He nodded. 

“One of the men saw me at Cardiff, where we all got out”, he admitted. “When he saw me again at Bristol, Merridew must have told them to make sure I went no further.”

“Your life nearly went no further!” I growled. “Damn it, Cas! What were you thinking?”

I looked up as I spoke, and winced at the pained look on his face. I was picking on an injured, defenceless human being. I was ashamed of myself. I got up and walked over to him, sitting in the opposite chair which I pulled forward so I could take his hands.

“I just don't want to lose you again”, I said bitterly. “Not after just getting you back. The last three years were sheer purgatory!”

“Not just for you”, he muttered.

I looked up, surprised. He sighed unhappily.

“Have you any idea how hard it was to watch you suffer?” he asked. “I wanted so much to let you know I was alive, but I knew that doing so could endanger the man I......”

He stopped, blushing.

“What?” I pressed. He made to pull his hands out of my grip, but I refused to let go.

“The man I admire above all others”, he said quietly. “The man I could not imagine my life without. The man I had to let think I was dead for three years, even when I wanted to be back here with you every moment.” He looked up, his blue eyes bright in the firelight. “The man I love, and could not live without.”

I swallowed. 

“No more going your own way”, I said, my voice shaking slightly. “You need someone to keep an eye on you at all times.”

“No I don't”, he said with a small smile. “I have you.”

+~+~+

A week later, it was Christmas. I got Cas a thick and totally impenetrable study on bees which had recently been published, and which he had expressed an interest in. He got me two presents, and I blushed when I saw the first one was a set of handcuffs. Then I opened the second, and words failed me.

It was a pair of silver rings, one with a small emerald in it, and one with a sparkling sapphire. Taking the emerald one and examining it, I saw that it had the letters C and D entwined inside it. I swallowed hard.

“Society may not yet be ready to recognize it”, Cas said softly, “but I wanted to make it official. I am yours for now and all time, Dean. 

I swallowed, then gently placed the ring on my finger, alongside my unofficial 'engagement' ring that he had given me back in Verona. It fitted perfectly.

“As I am yours”, I said softly. “Now and for all time.”

+~+~+

Later that night, I got to try out his other present, too.

+~+~+

Postscript: Despite his efforts, Richard Merridew was not discharged from hospital until the second day of January, eighteen hundred and ninety-five, whence he was immediately arrested. The Imperator Ricardus had slipped out of Liverpool under the cover of darkness on the fifteenth of December, but mysteriously the repairs effected by the local shipyard sprung several leaks and she had to return, whence she was impounded for non-payment of harbour fees. There was no more slave-trading in British waters.

+~+~+

In our next case, a property developer wants a house, and is prepared to go to extreme lengths to get it....


	9. Case 76: Jump The Shark (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: One thousand guineas equates to one thousand and fifty pounds sterling. A similar property price today would be at least £1.4 million (about $2 million), probably a lot more as property values have outstripped inflation by some way.

I

I mentioned some time ago the history of our dear home – I always thought of it as such, despite our only being tenants there – of 221B Baker Street, and how it evolved from being part of the former Glendower Mansion. As the great metropolis expanded its tendrils ever further outwards, the pressure to build on existing land became ever more intense, and it was construction of this sort which brought us our next case.

Christmas of 'Ninety-Four had been a joyous affair. It may seem odd to my readers that a second ring could make such a difference, but I felt somehow that we had moved from 'engagement' to 'marriage' and, even of society was not yet ready to recognize what we had, the thought of that beautiful mind and that beautiful body being mine was.... well, so sappy that my teenage self would probably have slapped me silly. Our joy was rounded off when, on New Year's Eve, Mrs. Harvelle surprised neither of us by announcing that she would soon be referred to as Mrs. Singer. Cas took us all out to a meal at his brother Gabriel's latest hotel, where he had booked a night for the happy couple. Then we returned alone to Baker Street, where we saw in the New Year together. Fireworks inside and out, so to speak!

Thank the Lord that I had New Year's Day off! I was still limping on the second!

+~+~+ 

The lady who brought us our nest case was shown up by Mrs. Harvelle one cold January afternoon. Her clothes were plain but serviceable, clearly someone in service, and she was young, probably barely twenty years of age. She was announced as Miss Hannah Bassett. Cas escorted her to the fireside chair, and we sat down in anticipation.

“I must tell you, Mr. Novak, that I am a mere parlourmaid”, she began in a quiet, melodious voice. “I have heard that you are sometimes prepared to take cases merely for their curiosity value, and although I have no way of paying for any services you may be able to provide, I would like you to hear my case. I do not wish to make it sound more than it is, yet I fear it could become something quite serious if it is not resolved.”

Cas smiled.

“You are a parlourmaid, yet you came her today in a carriage”, he observed. She started.

“How did you know that?” she demanded, her eyes wide.

He gestured to her dress.

“It has been sleeting outside for the past fifteen minutes”, he said, “yet you are barely damp. If you had come by the underground, you would have been much wetter. They are also repairing the roadway between here and the tube station, yet there is no sign of the fine dust I would have expected had you passed the works on your way here.”

She smiled. 

“As the doctor so often says in his books, it seems simple when you explain it”, she said.

“Letting daylight in upon magic does that”, Cas said equably. “Pray tell us what brings you here today.”

She sat back.

“I work for the Misses Palliser, two very nice elderly ladies who live in Wisteria Lodge, in the town of Wembley”, she began. “The railway reached us some years back, but it was not until two years ago that we acquired our own station, to serve the huge amusement park that the railway company has built next to it. It has quite changed the character of the area.”

“Not for the better, you feel?” I ventured. She nodded.

“It is developments arising from that which bring me here today”, she said. “Wisteria Lodge lies close to the station, in Sylvan Road. Last year a local developer, Mr. Uriel Sheffield, began buying up properties in the area so he could replace the large houses with many more smaller ones. He is one of those alphas who is all alpha, known to the local people as 'the Shark' as he smiles far too much, and his business dealings are what the local newspaper describes as 'sometimes questionable'. I saw him once in town, and he quite unnerved me, I must say. As it happened, my mistresses did not wish to sell, and knowing this helped deter other people from accepting his not always generous offers.”

“And now something has happened to concern you”, Cas observed. “What, exactly?”

She hesitated.

“Miss Lavinia and Miss Sheila have become – I do not like to use the term – accident-prone”, she said. “And the accidents only began after they refused Mr. Sheffield's latest offer.”

“Have you a list of these 'accidents'?” Cas asked.

She opened her handbag and extracted a small notebook. 

“Last October, Miss Lavinia slipped on the hallway floor”, she said. “The entrance-way carpet had been taken to be washed, and it was thought that the housemaid had polished the floor too much. This was the sixth, two days after they had given their final refusal to Mr. Sheffield.”

Cas frowned. “Go on”, he said.

“In November, Miss Sheila suffered food-poisoning”, the girl continued. “It was on the twenty-first. She always had a weakness for oysters, and the doctor said merely that she must have found a bad lot.”

“You thought otherwise”, Cas said.

She looked hard at him.

“In this instance, I know”, she said.

“How?” Cas asked.

“My brother works as a chemist”, she explained. “I managed to obtain two of the discarded oysters, and took them to him for testing. The poison they contained could only have been placed there deliberately.”

“Why did you not inform your employers?” Cas asked.

She blushed.

“The Misses Palliser are very set in their ways”, she said, sounding almost apologetic. “I do not think they would take a maid's word, especially....”

She tailed off. 

“Especially because you think someone in the house is also involved, and if you spoke out, they might consider you as a threat to Mr. Sheffield's ambitions”, Cas said. "Possibly even have you fired?"

She nodded again.

“I do not like to say it, but I have some suspicions about Michaels, the butler”, she said. “He was always complaining about not being paid enough, but ever since the 'accidents' have started, he suddenly seems to have money.”

“Interesting”, Cas said. “You are clearly very observant. Please go on.”

She blushed at his praise.

“The last incident was at Christmas”, she said. “Boxing Day, to be precise. The Misses Palliser share a scruffy little Yorkshire terrier, called Marmaduke. An adorable little creature, and he hates Michaels, so he exhibits good taste. Miss Sheila slipped on a ball that the dog had left out, and had to have her leg put in a cast.”

“That could have been an accident”, I said. She shook her head.

“You do not know Marmaduke”, she said stoutly. “He is fiercely possessive of that ball, and will only bring it to the ladies when they wish to play with him. He always returns it to his basket afterwards, without fail. Someone extracted it and left it at the top of the stairs for Miss Sheila to trip over. Thankfully Jamie, the footman, was going upstairs when it happened, and she fell into him rather than all the way down.”

“This is verging on attempted murder”, Cas said with a frown. “And with one incident a month, another strike is likely soon. We must move fast. Miss Bassett, who brought you here today?”

She blushed.

“Jamie”, she said. “He is... very nice. Miss Sheila wanted the carriage to go in for repairs at the workshop in Paddington, so she said Jamie could drive me to my mother's house in Marylebone before going there. He dropped me off here instead.”

“That was very obliging of him”, Cas smiled. “If you leave us your mother's address, I will forward any news I have there, rather than risk communicating with you at the house. Doctor, I am sure you can find this good lady a cab for Marylebone.”

II

I paid the cab-driver and saw Miss Bassett off, then mounted again to our apartments. Cas was sat there, deep in thought.

“This is worrisome”, he said. “I must move fast, before one or both of those ladies has another so-called 'accident'. I shall go to Wembley on Saturday morning.”

I stared at him in silent disapproval. He chuckled. 

“I do not think two elderly ladies are going to attempt to assault me”, he grinned. “Our Mr. Sheffield wishes to scare the ladies sufficiently to force them to sell, preferably at below the current market value. I would welcome your help as well.”

“What would you have me do?” I asked, only a little mollified.

“Are you free for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then can you take a train to Wembley and find out two things?” he asked. “First, to take a look at Mr. Sheffield's estate agency in the town - do not go inside, as we do not yet wish to alert him as to our interest in him - and also discover if he has any competition. And second, after you scope out Sylvan Road, find what similar properties are selling for in the area. That information would help me greatly.”

“And you promise it is only the ladies you will be seeing tomorrow?” I asked suspiciously. Cas was recovered from his recent beating, but he still moved gingerly around the room when he thought I was not looking at him, and he had been more exhausted than usual after our welcoming in the New Year together. As well as.....

“I am not a cripple”, he said, interrupting my thoughts. “Last night should have showed you that!”

I blushed fiercely. It was a good point.

“I am coming with you when you go”, I said. “I can wait outside if you wish to see the ladies by yourself, but I am not letting you go alone, not with you not yet fully recovered.”

I fully expected him to argue the point, but to my surprise he did not. He merely smiled, and resumed his paper. I got my coat and left for the station, wondering at his compliance. Of course I welcomed it, but it was just.... not like him.

I was getting more like a nagging wife every day!

+~+~+

“Wisteria Lodge is a handsome place”, I told Cas as we lay together later than night. Now that we were both in our forties, we increasingly liked to lie with each other, just enjoying being together. “Late Georgian, if I am any judge. It and only four other properties make up the whole of Sylvan Road, which is less than ten minutes from the station, yet on a very quiet street. Each house has a huge garden; I managed to find the plans for the area in the town library.”

“And Mr. Sheffield?” Cas asked. I shuddered.

“I saw him leaving the estate agents that he owns. It is called Sheffield and Brookwood, but the girl at the local restaurant says that Mr. Brookwood left for East Anglia last year, and the name had not yet been altered. Our 'shark' looks a little like a younger version of Inspector Henriksen, but there is a swagger about the man which marks him out as a scoundrel. There is one other estate agents in the town, Mackworth's, though it is considerably smaller.”

“Did you find the value of the property?” Cas asked.

“The lady at Mackworth's was quite helpful”, I said, leaving out that she had virtually propositioned me despite being ten years my junior. “She said they had lost a lot of business to Mr. Sheffield of late, and that she knows he offered Mr. Kitchener round the corner in Glade Road just under eight hundred pounds for his property, Faerie Glen. I looked at the plans, and Wisteria Lodge is about the same size but with a slightly larger garden. And in a better location.”

“And since we are talking development, both those are important”, Cas said. “I am still sorting out certain arrangements for the weekend. Would you be able to walk to the post office tomorrow morning to send a telegram for me?”

“Of course”, I said. “What is it about?”

He chuckled.

“Assuming Mr. Sheffield does not pre-empt us, we are going to try to force his hand”, he explained. “A mysterious new buyer is about to arrive in Wembley, looking to settle into a large house near the railway station and to establish himself in the neighbourhood.”

I grinned.

“I suspect I know this new buyer”, I said.

“You are just about to”, he said. “In a Biblical sense.”

It was really unfair that he could as much as just kiss me, and I was putty in his hands. I sighed happily as he worked his way inside my mouth, relaxing deeper into the bed as he clambered on top of me. We might both be the wrong side of forty, but Cas' stamina was always phenomenal, and I could only smile lazily as he worked himself to between my legs, instinctively raised in hopeful expectation. 

“I thought I might try something different tonight”, he smirked. 

I looked at him expectantly. Then he produced a long black feather from somewhere I knew not, and I raised my eyebrows. At least until he brushed it gently over my left nipple, sensitive as ever, and I whined in pleasure. 

“So beautiful”, he praised, and I blushed deeply. “I love watching you come apart, Dean Winchester. My perfect alpha.”

He continued to brush against both my nipples and my painfully leaking cock, and I barely noticed he had raised me until I felt his cock head at my entrance. I grunted my approval, and he pushed in in one long stroke. I let out a noise that was somewhere between a strangled yelp and a mating-call of some African wildebeest, and I was coming violently, whilst he continued to stoke the feather against my chest and nipples. 

“Wow!” I managed. He smiled, and continued his work, and incredibly, I started getting hard again. Mercifully he slowed down his actions, perhaps a little perturbed at my laboured breathing, but when I managed a strangled “more!”, he resumed, and within minutes I was coming a second time, this time echoed by his own orgasm deep inside me. I sighed happily and fell even deeper into the comfort of the mattress. This was Heaven!

III

Cas' telegram stated that a Mr. Anaximander West was looking for a large London property in the central Middlesex area, and had already sent scouts ahead to examine several possible sites, a list of which was attached. Naturally it included Wisteria Lodge, and I fully expected Cas to accompany me on Saturday when I went back. I was surprised when he instead arranged to meet me in a little restaurant in Wembley High Street

I had spent what seemed like an eternity in the restaurant before I realized someone was standing next to my table. I looked up to see a blond man with dark glasses, seriously over-gelled hair, a moustache and a horrendous pink shirt. 

“May I be of service?” I asked, being sufficiently courteous not to add in directions to the nearest hairdresser's and gentleman's outfitter's. His reply nearly bowled me over.

“Only if you can order Mr. Anaximander West a coffee and some cake”, came Cas' distinctive rumble.

I stared in astonishment. The man opposite looked nothing like my friend – until he took off his glasses, and I found myself staring into those familiar blue eyes of his.

“Cas?” I said, stunned. He grinned.

“Good to know I can still surprise you”, he said. “Coffee, Dean?”

I managed to wave a waitress over to give her the order, whilst a strange man sat opposite me. It was.. unnerving.

“I have had a most productive day”, he said happily. “I went to Wisteria Lodge – as Mr. West, of course – and explained that I wished to make the ladies an offer for their house of one thousand guineas, if they were prepared to sell. I explained that I wished to refurbish the house to my own taste, but would fully understand how such a move may make them unwilling to sell, so I invited them to attend my current house, Bellbrook, in Denham, which I had similarly 'improved'. They will be travelling there tomorrow lunch-time; it is a government property that Balthazar has made available to me for the occasion.”

“They will be disappointed when no offer materializes”, I said.

“I had to lie to them, as I was sure that Miss Bassett was correct about the butler”, Cas said. “I nearly knocked him over when I left, as he was listening the other side of the door.”

I chuckled at that.

“I then went to the offices of Mr. Sheffield”, he continued. “A most unpleasant character; we should perhaps be grateful that he has limited his criminal activities thus far. Miss Bassett was quite correct in his appellation; his smile was definitely shark-like. I took details of three other properties I had not yet considered, and mentioned events at the Lodge in our conversation. Clearly Michaels had reached him; the man was totally un-surprised. But now he has to act.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Mr. Sheffield fears that he is in danger of being outbid”, Cas said. “He will try something to prevent the ladies from reaching Denham tomorrow, which means he must act tonight. And then we will have him!”

“But he would not wish the ladies dead, surely?” I asked.

“He might”, Cas said. “My research has showed that, in the event of both ladies' deaths, the house passes to a first cousin, a Mr. Hosea Brown who lives in Ashford, Kent. And Mr. Sheffield has, I also found, happened to visit that town last month. If he has obtained an indication that Mr. Brown would be inclined to sell, then the ladies' lives are indeed in danger.”

+~+~+

Since it was January, it was already all but dark by the time we left the restaurant. I must admit that I was quite relieved that Cas divested himself of his disguise in the cab we took back to Sylvan Road; hearing the familiar voice coming from an unfamiliar form was disconcerting, to say the least. And the pink shirt... well!

It was fully dark by the time we were dropped off at the entrance to Sylvan Road, and we made our way silently into the grounds of Wisteria Lodge. Cas led me to the stables, which were separated from the main house by a screen of beech trees.

“I expect Mr. Sheffield to send some men to try to send some men to tamper with the Pallisers' carriage this evening”, he explained.

“What if they wait until the small hours?” I asked, not looking forward to an all-night vigil in the ice-cold building. Cas chuckled.

“My analysis of Mr. Sheffield suggests both that he likes to do jobs by himself, and that he enjoys his sleep”, Cas said. “He will come as soon as the house had had a chance to settle down, especially as that wall of trees screens off these buildings. We will adjourn to the safety of the offices at the back, which have a lockable door. I have left one or two small surprises for our visitors.”

I sighed.

“You are not going to ask me what they are?” he asked, surprised.

“You never tell me”, I said, in my best put-upon tone. He chuckled.

“Watch out for the rope!” he advised.

IV

Cas had perhaps overstated our target's preference for early nights, because it was the best part of two long hours before I heard the sound of the padlock on the barn door being forced (Cas had picked the lock of our office's exit onto the back yard to gain us access). Then a familiar figure emerged, his shark-teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Three other men were with him, one carrying a bag of what were presumably tools.

Outnumbered, I thought, annoyed. I was distracted by one of the men crying out in surprise.

“What is it?” his boss hissed in an angry tone.

“Just a rope hanging down from the ceiling, boss”, the huge man said. He grabbed the rope and pulled at it. 

The next moment all four men cried out in alarm, as something liquid poured from the dark above them. They all immediately withdrew to the dark corner of the building, presumably in case someone had heard them and might come to investigate. When nothing happened for several minutes, there was a yelp of pain.

“Idiot!” came Mr. Sheffield's voice. “What the hell did you want to go and do that for? We're all covered in paint now.”

“It'll wash off, boss”, one of the other men whispered. “Let's get to it, eh? Micky said he'd fixed it so the old girls' night-time drinkies were drugged, and the servants' quarters are right the other side of the house.”

One of the men took a lantern from the bag and lit it, then placed it next to the carriage whilst the other two men shimmied underneath it. There was the sound of sawing, followed by some scratching. I wondered what they were up to, but did not want to risk detection when we were outnumbered, so said nothing until the men had finished and left. 

“What were they doing?” I asked, wincing as I pulled myself upright.

“Sawing through the carriage axle, then patching a repair which would have broken once it reached a certain speed”, Cas said. “We will give them a further ten minutes to be safe, then I propose we should repair to the police station and see If they would like to catch a criminal.”

+~+~+

Wembley Police Station was manned by a beta called Sergeant Thornleigh for the night shift. He listened gravely to Cas' account of the night's adventures, then frowned.

“We do only have your word – and the doctor's, of course – as to this”, he said heavily. “Juries may be reluctant to convict on such, especially against someone who is regarded as a pillar of the community.”

“I might suggest then that Wembley needs some new pillars”, Cas said. “But it is quite easily proven.”

“How?” the sergeant asked.

“Mr. Sheffield will not want paint-spattered clothes around after such a night”, Cas said. “He will do one of two things, and either way, you will catch him. Now here is what you need to do....”

+~+~+

As might have been expected, Mr. Sheffield was less than pleased when two policemen brought him into the police station the following morning. And when he found himself in a small dark interview room with Sergeant Thornleigh, Cas and myself, he became positively furious.

“I do hope you have a good reason for inviting me here today, sergeant”, he said icily. “Your bosses do not, I am sure, take kindly to cases of wrongful arrest.”

“This is the gentleman who asked to see you here today, sir”, Sergeant Thornleigh said courteously. “Mr. Castiel Novak, a consulting detective down from London.”

Clearly Mr. Sheffield had heard of my friend. Even his dark skin paled.

“What do you want?” he demanded tersely.

To my surprise, Cas walked over to the window and closed the shutters, leaving the unlit room in near-darkness.

“Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sheffield”, he said. “It concerns a ruthless developer who wishes to buy up a lot of houses cheaply, then make a fortune on them. Business is of course business, but when two ladies decline to sell him their property, his plans are threatened.”

“He uses his wealth to buy the loyalty of the butler, a key servant in the house, and a series of unfortunate 'accidents' begin to befall the ladies. He hopes that this run of bad luck will convince them to sell. But unbeknownst to him, a maid loyal to her employers has called in the services of a certain consulting detective, who comes up with a counter-plan. In disguise, he plays the part of a rival buyer who can outbid even our wealthy developer.”

The developer's eyes widened, but he remained silent.

“There is still one chance, however”, Cas went on. “In the event of the two ladies' untimely demise, the house will pass to a first cousin who has agreed that he would sell. So our greedy developer visits the ladies' house the night before he knows they are planning to take a long carriage ride, and fixes it so that their carriage will crash at full speed. Hopefully removing the obstacles to his ever-expanding wealth.”

“The only hitch comes when one of the developer's henchmen pulls at a rope hanging down from the ceiling”, Cas smiled, as the developer looked increasingly worried. “All four men are covered in paint. Now of course this could be dismissed, except for the small matter that the paint in question is that most interesting of inventions, luminescent paint.”

Cas pulled a pile of clothes from a bag and spread them out on the table. In the dark, the base of the trousers shone with blue paint, which reflected the dark look in Mr, Sheffield's eyes. 

“I put that up there”, Cas said, “and I also laid a covering of paint on the floor around the carriage. These were recovered from your dustbin this morning, Mr Sheffield. This paint is quite unique, and I think you will find it hard to explain to a jury exactly how that exact shade of blue paint went from the Pallisers' stables to your clothes.”

The man suddenly lunged for Cas, who stepped quickly backwards. Sergeant Thornleigh reached to restrain Mr. Sheffield, but I was closer and pushed in between him and Cas before pushing him bodily back into the chair. The sergeant opened the door, flooding the room with dazzling light and summoned two of his constables, who led the snarling developer away.

“He was prepared to kill for money”, the policeman said, sounding stunned. 

“Death would have been likely, or at least a very serious injury to passengers in that coach”, Cas said. “Which reminds me; we must be returning to Wisteria Lodge, and explaining what has happened to those poor ladies. I only hope they will not mind losing out on a thousand guineas.”

“Considering you have probably saved their lives, they should not!” I said hotly.

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. Mr. Uriel Sheffield went to prison for a long time for his crimes, his only relief being that the jury inexplicably declined to find him guilty of attempted murder, thus sparing his wretched neck. The poor Misses Palliser were shocked by the whole affair, and not long after decided to retire somewhere smaller. Wisteria Lodge was sold to an American businessman who kept it as it always had been. Miss Bassett chose that same moment to marry her footman friend, the two of them moving to a small house in Cricklewood.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, I discover that murderers come in all shapes and sizes, whilst Cas tells a lie.....


	10. Case 77: Roadkill (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist'.

I

The boy who called at Baker Street one cold early February morning was about sixteen years of age, and holding what I recognized as a set of my own works. Unfortunately he had missed Cas, who had gone to his parents' house for the day (much against his will, I might add). The young gentleman introduced himself as Master Ionel Johnston, and I apologized for my friend's untimely absence.

“I know you document all his cases, doctor”, my visitor said politely. “Indeed, I was only able to persuade Mother to let me come her by telling her that I wished you to sign my books for me. She does not know the real reason for my visit.”

He realized a moment too late that he had practically just insulted me, and reddened.

“Not that I don't want you to”, he said, covering with impressive speed. “In fact, it is better if you do, otherwise Mother will suspect.”

I smiled at his embarrassment.

“Pray take a seat, Master Johnston”, I said, gesturing to the table. “Mr. Novak will not be back until late this evening, but I am sure I can pass on details such as you wish to provide. I presume you require his help on a case?”

To my surprise, the boy frowned.

“It is not that easy”, he said. “You see, doctor, at the moment all I have is suspicions.”

“Suspicions as to what?” I asked patiently.

I was most definitely not prepared for his reply.

“I think my father is planning to murder my mother.”

+~+~+

It was perhaps fortuitous that Mrs. Harvelle chose that moment to bring in coffee and cakes, with an orange juice for my young guest. It gave me time to recover from his shocking statement.

“You had better tell me everything”, I said grimly. “I will write it all down, and if Castiel chooses to take the case, he will doubtless find a way of contacting you if he needs clarification at all.”

My young guest nodded, and began.

“We have come down today from the village of Westcott in Buckinghamshire”, he said, “where my father is stationmaster. I should explain that it is no usual railway; the Brill Tramway has steam engines now, but they can barely manage much more than walking pace. Then again, it is a very rural area, so there is no need for speed.”

“Why are you in London?” I asked. “Your mother, I meant.”

“I have to buy some new clothes, and get some new books”, he explained. “My school is closed just for today as they have to repair the roof after the recent storm, and Mother picked me up on her way. My mother, like me, is an ardent follower of your stories, which is why I received an angel name; my father just calls me Ian.”

“Tell me what makes you think.... er, what you think”, I said inelegantly.

“I have to go back a bit”, he said. “About twenty years ago, the great manor house at Waddesdon was built, and they brought in most of the material on the railway. I found a newspaper article in Aylesbury library from the time which told me what had happened. There is a level-crossing just outside the house; it has no gates of course, it being a tramway. One day a local man who was cycling along the road tried to cut in front of a goods train coming down from Quainton. He did not make it.”

“Horrible!” I said, wondering where this was going.

“I know you think me rambling, but what started last year makes the history important”, the boy said patiently, as if I were the child that needed things explaining by a condescending adult. I bit back a smile. “One day Mother was looking out of the upstairs bedroom window when she saw a cyclist waiting by the crossing. She thought it odd, as there was no train due so she went down to investigate – but the man had vanished!”

I waited, sensing that there was more. There was.

“Since then, my mother has seen the cyclist some three times”, the boy said. “On the second occasion, my father was upstairs in their room with her – but he saw nothing. Or that was what he said.”

I caught up with my note-taking before asking my question.

“Why, in your opinion Master Johnston, would your father lie?”

The boy hesitated.

“You must be honest”, I pressed gently. “Lots of facts come out during one of Castiel's investigations, sometimes unpleasant ones. You can trust me.”

“I know I can”, he said stoutly. “There is a woman – I do not use the term 'lady', as she is none - in the village, a Mrs. Birkin. A divorcee; her husband died at sea about two years ago. I fear that she and my father have some sort of.... understanding, and that Father may be planning to take advantage of the fact that Mother has a weak heart.”

The look on the boy's face was one of sheer distaste. I thought for a moment.

“You say that the spot where your mother saw the cyclist is by the level-crossing”, I said at last. “Can you draw me a sketch of the area, so I can see what is where?”

I handed him a sheet of paper from my notebook and he slowly drew something, carefully labelling each item. When he had finished, he passed it over to me.

“You said your mother saw the cyclist from the same upstairs window each time?” I asked.

“No”, he said. “One time she was in my bedroom, and the other three times her own. But she was always upstairs. That in itself strikes me as unusual.”

"Mathematical probability states that the odds of all four sightings being in the upper part of the house is one in sixteen, or 6.25%", he said matter-of-factly. I gulped.

“How long, in seconds, do you think it would take for your mother to go from either bedroom to a point outside where she could see the cyclist directly?” I rallied.

The boy thought about that one. 

“I think about thirty seconds”, he said. “Maybe twenty if she was hurrying. There is a very sharp turn in our stairs, so one cannot run down them, plus the door opens to the other side of the house.”

I tried to think of what else Cas would have asked – probably lots of things. Then I thought of something.

“Castiel may wish to go and see the area”, I said, “and he always tries to get a feel for the people involved. Can you jot down the basic physical characteristics of your mother, father, Mrs. Birkin and anyone else you think important? Age, type build, the way they look, anything.”

He took several sheets, and I perused the Times whilst he finished his task.

“Where to you go to school?” I asked once he was done. “Because if you are right, I dare say it might be better for Castiel to contact you there rather than at home.”

“Aylesbury Grammar”, the boy said. “Do you really think Mr. Novak might look into this for me?”

He looked extremely hopeful. I smiled in reassurance.

“Castiel always takes cases on interest, and never on the sort of person who asks”, I said. “Young or old, rich or poor, noble or charlady, he makes no distinction. Either way, I am sure that he will contact you shortly.”

+~+~+

Cas arrived back that afternoon in the expected poor mood – whole family events rarely passed off well in the Novak household, I knew from experience. Mrs. Harvelle had, with her usual foresight, prepared one of his favourite meals for his return, kippers with buttered bread, so I let him finish his meal and spend some little time dozing in front of the the fire before mentioning my recent visitor. It struck me as I looked at him napping in his chair how domestic this all was, and I felt a fuzzy warmth that, something told me, had little to do with the blazing fire.

My friend woke up after an hour looking refreshed, and I explained the case to him. He was pleased with the notes and map I had assembled, and said that he would definitely look into it.

“I think we may start by considering Mr. Johnston's accomplice”, he said, sipping his third cup of coffee (the man had an iron bladder, I swear!). I looked at him in surprise.

“Accomplice?” I asked.

“Your notes state that he was with his wife when she saw the cyclist on one occasion”, he observed. “Therefore clearly someone else must be involved. It cannot be Mrs. Birkin, because from the boy's description of her – well done for getting him to list physical characteristics of all the main players, by the way – she is most definitively female. But I note that she does have a son from her first marriage, a Master George Birkin, who is only a little older than Master Johnston. Doubtless he would benefit from his mother making a new alliance.”

“You are taking the case?” I asked. He nodded.

“I shall go to Buckinghamshire tomorrow”, he announced. “Are you free to come with me?”

Fortunately the next day was one of my 'writing days', so I was. 

II

We spent the evening at the theatre, where we saw the première of Mr. Oscar Wilde's fascinating new play 'The Importance of Being Earnest'. I found it highly amusing, and it even drew a smile from Cas, which I was pleased to see. 

We hurried into 221B from our cab, glad to be out of the biting winter cold. It had not snowed for some time, but the sharp drop in temperature and leaden grey skies boded ill for the morrow. I was surprised when, on entering our rooms, I found a parcel waiting for me. Cas looked at it, and smiled.

“That would be your birthday present”, he said, looking pleased. “I had to send for it to be altered because they not only dispatched the wrong size the first time, but their second effort had a small tear in it.”

I smiled at him, and having shrugged off my coat set to opening the bulky parcel. Inside I found a wonderfully thick winter coat, so much better than the one I had just been wearing. It was leather, with soft almost silky insides. 

“It is wonderful!” I said, smiling at him. “Thank you.”

“It looks good on you”, he said, clearly pleased at my reaction. “Though of course I prefer you in rather fewer clothes.”

I blushed, and mercifully Mrs. Harvelle chose that moment to bring us our hot chocolates.

+~+~+

I had some doubts as I stood before Cas' door an hour or so later – the poor man had been yawning a lot, clearly tired out by his day – but I wanted this badly enough to ignore that. I knocked at the door, and at his call to enter, did so. He was as usual lying naked on his bed, and looked up at me with a smile. Then his face changed, first to one of surprise, then to what was most definitely lust.

“You are wearing the coat!” he growled.

I was. Wearing the coat. And nothing else. I moved quickly to the bed – the coldness of the room did not make me inclined to linger – and covered him with my body whilst the coat hung over both of us. He wrapped his arms round inside of it, and sighed contentedly.

“Dean....” he said softly.

“I know you're tired”, I said. “And I just want this. The two of us, holding each other. My perfect mate. My Cas.”

Even in the darkness, I knew he was smiling. He eased us both onto our sides, the coat still a warm blanket over us both, and pulled me even closer before slipping into a deep sleep. I followed him in seconds, safe and contented in his strong arms.

+~+~+

The next morning, we decamped to Paddington Station and caught a train to Aylesbury, where Cas hoped to talk to young Master Johnston. However, on presenting ourselves at the school office, we were told he was not there.

“Such a tragedy”, the secretary sniffed. “The poor boy's mama was killed this very morning, and he was summoned home by telegraph.”

“Killed?” I asked, shocked. “How, pray?”

“Run over by a train, it said.”

Cas and I looked silently at each other. 

“Who came for the boy, may I ask?” he said.

“His uncle, down from Buckingham”, she said. “I understand that they took the poor lady to Waddesdon Police Station.”

“Thank you, ma'am”, Cas said, before we hurried away.

My heart sank. We had come too late.

+~+~+

We took a carriage to Waddesdon, where we found the sergeant in charge of the small local police station looking overwhelmed.

“This is not what I signed on for!” he sighed once we had introduced ourselves. “I've had those two men at each other's throats all morning, and I had to threaten to lock them in the cells to cool down so they would go away. They were still arguing when they left, even!”

“Sergeant Tompkins”, Cas said calmingly. “My name is Mr. Castiel Novak, and I am a consulting detective. This is my friend and colleague Doctor Dean Winchester.”

The man's eyes widened.

“You think..... there is foul play here?” he almost gasped.

“First, who are the two gentlemen who you had such trouble with?” Cas asked gently.

“Mr. Joseph Johnston, the victim's husband, and Mr. Henry Fairhead, his brother-in-law and the victim's sister”, he said. “Mr. Johnston insisted that it was his wife's will that she be cremated, but Mr. Fairhead was just as firm that there should be an examination first. Mr. Johnston has returned to Westcott to fetch his wife's last will and testament, as he says that she clearly states her wishes in that document.”

“When is he due back?” Cas asked. The sergeant checked his watch.

“Not for best part of an hour, I'd reckon”, he said. “He only left fifteen minutes ago.”

“Would it be acceptable for the doctor to perform a quick examination?” Cas asked. “I know it is irregular, but it is only fair that I should warn you that there is a strong suspicion that this was no accident, and that the husband himself may be implicated.”

The sergeant somehow managed to turn even paler. 

“Go right ahead, gentlemen”, he said. “But if Mr. Johnston returns, you'll have to high-tail it out the back way, otherwise my neck will be on the line!”

Cas smiled, and we were ushered through to a cold, empty room at the back of the station where the body of the late Mrs. Johnston lay on a long table. Post-mortems were not my area of expertise, but I knew my way around a body, so I began.

III

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Johnston had still not returned, and Cas, the sergeant and I were sat round a table in another room. 

“Death occurred sometime between the hours of five and seven this morning”, I said. “I cannot be more accurate than that, I am afraid.”

“What time is the first train on the tramway?” Cas asked.

The sergeant had already fetched a timetable for us. 

“Through Westcott, there is one at five minutes past seven”, he said. “It would be dark, but with the promise of light at that time round here.”

“Cause of death?” Cas asked. 

“I cannot be sure”, I admitted. “Clearly from the damage to the body, she was struck by a heavy object not moving particularly fast. It could have been a train, or she would have fallen or been pushed against something large and heavy. I would likely place her death closer to five than seven, from the lividity.”

“From the what?” the sergeant asked, confused.

“Blood settles after death”, I explained briefly. “The state of the skin suggests that the impact most likely occurred after the blood had begun to settle. There is also the possibility that she was smothered.”

The sergeant took a long drink of his tea, glaring at it as if he felt he needed something stronger.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“The discolouration around the lips is quite marked”, I said, “more than I would have expected. But I am sorry. I cannot be certain.”

“That may be enough”, Cas said. “Sergeant, do you know where Mr, Fairhead went?”

“I believe he is staying at the vicarage in Westcott”, the sergeant said. “He knows the vicar through his late sister.”

“Then we must adjourn there with all speed”, Cas said. "Sergeant, when Mr. Johnston returns, you must not release the body to him. At any cost. We are going to Westcott; if - and I do not think it likely - he chooses to leave the body with you and go there also, can you either delay him or send us a warning telegram?"

The sergeant nodded.

+~+~+

Westcott turned out to be a charming village, less than a mile from the main road between Aylesbury and Bicester, yet in a world of its own. It was stretched out along a single street, except for the church and a smattering of houses along its sole side-road. The tramway cut across the main road a little way south of the village, with only the stationmaster's house anywhere near it. It was a typical English village scene, marred only slightly by the heavy grey leaden skies that threatened more snow. 

We presented ourselves at the vicarage, and were soon introduced to Master Johnston's uncle, Mr. Henry Fairhead. I liked the alpha at once; he not only lived up to his name but there was an honest, open expression about him that marked him out as a decent human being. He was also seemingly un-surprised at our interest in the case.

"Ionel said that he wanted to bring you in”, he said with a sigh. “I am only sorry it was not sooner. My brother-in-law has returned to the police station to demand that his wife be cremated, so he can hide the evidence.”

“You think him guilty?” Cas asked.

“I am sure of it”, the man said. “But there is no proof.”

“Do you have a key to his house?” Cas asked.

“No.”

“Then we may have to indulge in a little breaking and entering”, Cas said. “Let us hope that the sergeant indulges my request, and keeps Mr. Johnston at the station for as long as possible. With the latter's penchant for arguing, that should not be too difficult a task!”

+~+~+

We walked down to the tramway station, the only incident occurring when a large lady and a young man very pointedly stared at us all as we passed them on the other side of the road.

“Mrs. and Master Birkin”, Mr. Fairhead explained. “They know that I am aware of their little game.”

The lady scowled at us, even though she almost certainly had no idea who we were. We passed on, and were soon at the station which was a decidedly mean affair. Not even a platform as such, just a gravelled area with a name-board, a rudimentary waiting-shelter and a storage hut by the crossing. Cas seemed particularly interested in the latter, for some reason. 

“Well, at least I have solved the mystery of how the 'ghost' disappeared”, he said, much to my surprise.

“How?” I asked.

He gestured to the back of the small shed, and we both saw immediately that the lock on the building, which had seemed to be out of use, had been forced. Cas pointed to the floor. 

“Cycle tyre impressions”, he said in a low voice. “And one complete footprint of someone who wears those fashionable if questionable square-toed boots. Which we all saw young Master Birkin wearing in the street.”

“So he was the ghost!” Mr. Fairhead exclaimed. “The bastard!”

“That connects him to the crime, but not your brother-in-law”, Cas said as we walked over to the Johnstons' house. “We shall search outside, but I fear we may have to break into your sister's house.”

“What are we looking for?” Mr. Fairhead asked.

“A piece of cloth, anything from the size of a flannel upwards”, Cas said. “I am afraid that it may have been burnt, but if you find anything like it, do not touch it. It is evidence.”

He nodded, and the three of us set about searching the property grounds.

+~+~+

As Cas had suspected, we did not find what he was looking for, and after ten minutes he decided to risk breaking into the house itself, which he managed with a somewhat disconcerting ease. Once inside, he split us up to cover more ground, and it was only five minutes later before Mr. Fairhead called from the kitchen. We hurried to meet him, and found him staring at a drawer, from which something made of cloth protruded. Cas carefully opened the drawer, then using a pair of washing-tongs extracted what turned out to be a scarf. He held it out to me.

“Don't touch, just sniff”, he ordered.

I did, and my head spun.

“Chloroform”, I managed once my head had cleared. “A powerful amount, to linger this long.”

“We need to get out of here”, Cas said. He found a paper bag from another drawer and dropped the scarf into it, then ushered us out of the house before turning to Mr. Fairhead.”

“Sir”, he said flatly, “I know now that your brother-in-law murdered his wife, your sister, and I know how it was done. Would you care to accompany us to Waddesdon Police Station so we can confront him?”

Mr. Fairhead smiled.

“Sir, I would be honoured!” he said firmly.

+~+~+

We arrived back at the police station to find Mr. Johnston gone, although the sergeant assured us we would not have to wait long for his return.

“He spoke the truth about his wife's wish to be cremated”, the policeman admitted ruefully, “but I still didn't want to release him the body. So he went to telegraph his lawyer down in Aylesbury to come and force me.”

“A good lawyer may be what he needs”, Cas smiled. “We shall wait.”

IV

Another hour passed, and Mr. Joseph Johnston arrived back at the police station with his lawyer, an alpha called Mr. Amadeus Jukes. It was a tight fit getting six grown men into the interview room, but we just managed it.

“Sir”, Mr. Jukes began in a nasally voice”, “I demand that you release my client's late wife to him so he can respect her final wishes.”

“Whilst the sergeant would normally comply with such a request”, Cas said smoothly, “there are certain difficulties that prevent his acting in this case.”

The lawyer looked down his overly long nose at him.

“And what may they be?” he demanded archly.

“That your client killed his wife, and is attempting to have her cremated to hide the evidence.”

There was a stunned silence in the room, before Mr. Johnston spoke harshly.

“There are laws of libel and slander in this country, Mr. Novak”, he ground out. “Be very careful.”

“Libel and slander only apply if the statement is untrue”, Cas said. “You murdered your wife, sir, and I can prove it!”

Another silence, which this time was broken by Cas himself.

“You had decided to rid yourself of your wife so you could marry Mrs. Birkin, who is quite wealthy in her own right”, Cas said. “You began by trying to unnerve your wife by having Mrs. Birkin's son dress as the ghost of a man killed on the nearby tramway crossing.”

“Poppycock!” Mr. Johnston snorted.

“Young Mr. Birkin was able to disappear by waiting until he knew he was being watched – always from the upstairs rooms, which was in itself suspicious – then carrying his bicycle to the storage shed and hiding himself and it inside until Mrs. Johnston had gone away”, Cas said. “However, he was careless. He left a footprint which matches the square-toed boots he wears, and there were also cycle marks in the shed where he rested the bike whilst opening the door.”

Mr. Johnston had gone rather red.

“Your son Ionel decided to call me in on the case”, Cas said. “Unfortunately for her, your wife mentioned that he had called at Baker Street to get his books signed by the doctor. You realized the implications of that, and decided to act quickly. You were also fortunate in your wife's request for cremation, which you expected would hide the evidence of your misdeeds.”

The man shuddered, but said nothing.

“At sometime around six this morning, Master Birkin came to the house. You had invented an excuse to rise early, and let him in. You then went upstairs and heavily chloroformed your wife. That was where you made your major mistake. You threw the cloth you used in the kitchen drawer.”

Cas drew the bag containing the cloth out of his pocket, and placed it on the table. Mr. Johnston seemed to sag even further.

“I do not know exactly what you did next”, Cas admitted. “I would guess, however, that you and Master Birkin carried your wife's limp body out of the house and threw it up against the single wagon that was in the siding at the station. You then suffocated her, hoping that her death would look like she had wandered out to investigate the 'ghost' and that she, too, had been struck by a train.”

“No proof”, the man growled. “A few marks on the ground and an old rag? So what?”

Cas leaned forward.

“You are seemingly unaware”, he almost purred, “that when you suffocate someone by closing off their airway, there is a strong chance that a piece of cloth gets caught in said person's airway?”

The man stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then slumped in his chair. 

“You wait!” he snarled. “I'll get off. You'll see!”

+~+~+

“I do not remember seeing any cloth fragments in the dead lady's airways”, I observed as we left the station that day.

“There were none”, he admitted.

I stared at him in shock.

“But you said they were there!” I insisted.

“No”, he replied. “What I actually said was they were there in most cases. I can hardly be blamed for Mr. Johnston's assuming the worst, can I now?”

The devious bastard!

+~+~+

Mr. Johnston's belief in the elasticity of the British justice system was misplaced. He was duly convicted for the murder of his wife, and hung before the year was out. It was not the evidence that did for him but the decision of Master Birkin, when he realized that his own neck might also be on the line, to start talking. It spared his miserable neck, but he still qualified for spending a couple of decades at Her Majesty's pleasure for his part in the foul deed. His scheming mother was jailed for three years as an accomplice, after which she had the belated decency to emigrate to parts unknown. Young Master Johnston moved to Buckingham to attain his adulthood with his uncle, where he prospered and is now a clerk at a bank in that town.

+~+~+

Next, a meeting with an old friend leaves me very depressed, and Cas and I return to college to solve a crime....


	11. Case 78: Party On, Garth (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Three Students'.

I

It was late March, just over a year since Cas had been restored to me. I was of course overjoyed to have him back, and would often find myself staring across the room from my chair, just happy that the room contained my dear friend. And if he sometimes caught me staring and gestured for us to go to his room, well, friendship was all about making sacrifices, wasn't it? Even if I found it difficult to sit down afterwards. Or move.

Or attempt complicated facial expressions.

Except today, when I really wished he had been somewhere else. I had just returned from a trip to Oxford, and I felt completely and utterly depressed. Of course, Cas was there reading, and although I just grunted a greeting and walked quickly to my own room, he called after me.

“Dean?”

He sounded concerned, and I knew I was lost. I sighed, turned on my heels and went slowly over to my chair, falling heavily into it. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Your trip went ill?” he asked.

“Very ill”, I said glumly. 

“I thought you were looking forward to seeing your old friend?” he asked, clearly puzzled. “I know you exchange cards at Christmas, but you have not seen him for some years now.”

“Hmph.”

He stared at me in confusion.

“The ‘Stamford’ who asked to meet me in Oxford was not just my old friend James from Northumberland”, I said bitterly. “It was also his alpha son, Joshua. His adult alpha son, who is in his first year at University, Bonaventure College. He and his father met me there.”

At any other time Cas’ confusion would probably have amused me – it was rare enough - but he seemed genuinely perplexed by my reaction.

“You did know that Stamford had had a son?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said, knowing how foolish I sounded. “I just never did the mathematics. I last saw Stamford six years back, and Joshua was only twelve then, a weed of a boy. The weed has, apparently, shot up.”

“You did not get on well with Joshua?” he asked.

I looked up at him mournfully.

“Stamford is two years younger than me”, I said dully, “yet he is married and has a son attending university. A six-foot-tall giant who is a man. I just feel old! Old and useless!”

He looked shocked at that.

“Dean Winchester”, he said sternly, “you are not old. You are forty-three years of age, in the prime of your life and barely two and a half years older than my good self. And as for useless – how would I manage without you?”

He had said that several times before, to me and others, that he would not be able to be the force he was without me, but I never felt it until that moment, his blue eyes staring earnestly into mine. I nodded.

“Perhaps”, I said. 

“What did your friend, or your friend’s son, want?” Cas asked. 

“Stamford – the younger - is concerned that a friend of his has been falsely accused of theft”, I said. “I promised I would ask if you could spare some time to look into it, though I warned him how busy you have been of late.”

“True”, he said, “but I shall always make time for a friend of a friend. We could go to Oxford on Wednesday next, if you wish.”

Oxford. Where I had met Cas, and we had had our first case, the Gloria Scott. Twenty-three years ago. I winced at the memory.

“Or would you rather I go alone?” he asked.

“Of course not!” I protested. “It has just…. been a long time.”

“Over two decades”, he said. “But look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?” I scowled.

“I read somewhere that the Great Western Railway may soon be offering discounts for elderly travellers!” he said brightly.

I scowled at him. That was just mean!

+~+~+

Cas said nothing more about my general depression all day, which was considerate in his way. That was until that evening when, needing a blue-eyed genius to hold, I made my way to his room and knocked at the door. He called for me to enter, but I was barely through the wood when he called for me to stop. I looked at him, puzzled (I may have drooled just a little but I had six foot of naked beauty in front of me!).

“I thought you might need that”, he said, gesturing to the stand by the door.

I looked down, and scowled mightily. There was a walking-stick there. That was just mean!

“You are just asking for it!” I growled, shrugging off my dressing-gown. He quirked an eyebrow at me. 

“Are you sure you are up to it?” he teased. “I know how older gentlemen find it harder to get things up of an evening.”

“You'll be the one finding it harder soon”, I bit back, positioning myself between his raised legs. “Or perhaps I should just make you wait for it?”

He smirked knowingly at me.

“You could not”, he smiled.

Damn him, he was right! I could no more withhold sex from Cas than I could stop breathing. I fingered him open more roughly than usual, and in moments was positioning myself at his entrance.

“Hurry up, old man”, he yawned in mock tiredness. “I can't wait all night!”

With that I pushed right in, pushing his legs back harder than usual and aiming straight for his prostate. He grunted in satisfaction.

“That's a bit more like it”, he said. “Come on, Dean!”

I pulled back until only the head of my cock was inside of him, and grabbed the base of my cock, determined to make this one last. I may have been forty-three, but I could still pleasure my mate, quite well if the happy sighs he was emitting were anything to judge by. Then I pushed slowly back in, this time deliberately aiming to miss his prostate, whilst running my free hand over his muscular chest. There were one or two grey hairs amidst the fine black ones that lightly covered it, and I rejoiced silently that even the great man was showing signs of age.

He quickly proved me wrong by somehow managing to twist his body so that my cock struck his prostate, and he came violently, groaning in relief. I could feel my own orgasm pushing at my restraining hand, and partly because I did not want to die of too much sex with Cas (although that would definitely be the way to go when my time did eventually come), I let go and erupted inside him, letting out a guttural snarl as I claimed him.

“I love you”, he said silently, as I wiped us both down. “And you are not too old, Dean. But if you want to prove that to me again – feel free!”

“Oh yes!” I said fervently. “I will! Give me a minute, though.”

II

The following week Cas and I returned to Oxford, scene of my first memorable meeting with the love of my life. I must admit that I felt lighter once we were in the city of dreaming spires, especially as young Stamford's college lay some distance from the troubled memories of Bargate. I also felt a little ashamed, as I had not thought how my friend would feel about being reminded of a case where his findings were, to all intents and purposes, thrown in his face. Cas however said nothing about the past, and we were soon in the well-manicured grounds of Bonaventure and looking for young Stamford.

Joshua Stamford was what some people (rather offensively, I myself thought) then called a half-caste, a phraseology which is now thankfully falling from common usage. My friend had married a black lady from the United States, much against his father’s initial wishes, but apparently the fragrant Lucia had won him over. She had also more than secured the family line, producing some six sons and two daughters for her husband. Her son was strikingly handsome and clearly not white, and I wondered whether he would find that a hindrance in the life that lay ahead of him. Then again, the Henriksens had prospered well enough, the English as a whole caring little for race provided people fitted into their culture.

“Thank you for coming, Uncle Dean”, he smiled. 

I had stood godfather to the boy at his christening. I did not need reminding that I was an uncle. Sammy’s children – D.J, the eldest, was already six, depressingly - were more than enough. Cas smirked knowingly at me, the bastard!

“I have brought my friend, as promised”, I said, taking a seat. It had been a cold day, and the journey up had been tiring…..

Hell, I would be looking round for my pipe and slippers, next!

“Please tell me about your friend’s problems”, Cas said, sitting down more elegantly than my near-collapse. His knee brushed against mine, and even that simple action made me blush like a schoolgirl.

“His name is Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth, and he is from Ireland”, the young man said. He must have caught my surprise at that last comment for he added, “I mention that because the man accusing him is fervently anti-Irish, and I feel that that has played a role in his being accused. Garth is a good man, a little to prone to parties and the social life, but we all have our weaknesses.”

Cas looked at him pointedly. The tall man blushed.

“All right, he is an omega. And yes, I do want him. I know he is seven years older than me, but sometimes..... you just see someone and you know.”

I knew. And the slight nudge against my knee told me that someone else did too.

“Go on”, Cas said, smiling slightly. 

“Garth lives like we all do, with two other students in a self-contained set of rooms”, Stamford said. “His room-mates are two betas over here from the United States, Edward Zeddmore and Harold Spengler. Both pleasant enough young men I had always thought – and yet one of them must be guilty, if Garth is innocent.”

“If?” I questioned. “You doubt your friend?”

Stamford blushed. 

“The item stolen was a small marine compass”, he explained. “It dates from the reign of the great Elizabeth, and may even have been used on a ship in the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Sold to the right person, it would bring hundreds of pounds at least. Garth is a good man, but he is here on a small scholarship, and has to work long hours in the city to make ends meet.”

“Why do you say it must be one of these three men?” Cas asked.

“The compass was kept in the university’s own small museum, which is in a room next to the three boys”, Stamford explained. “There is a connecting door, but it was always kept locked, and the museum is only unlocked if someone asks to see it, or on certain open days. The only other way in was through the boys’ room – and when the college authorities checked the door, they found someone had both oiled and unlocked it.”

“Why would they oil it?” I asked.

“There is a heavy curtain the other side of the door”, Stamford explained. “I suppose that if the door could be opened silently, someone could then listen to make sure the room was empty before daring to enter.”

“But what about the main door?” Cas asked. “Anyone with the keys to it could have entered at a time of their own choosing.”

“The main door has two keys”, Stamford said. “One is the Chancellor’s, but he is off sick at the moment, so the Vice-Chancellor is in charge. His name is Mr. Silas Barrowman, and he’s a nasty piece of work, one of those oily alphas who perfumes his hair, for some reason. And he wears a huge alpha amulet, presumably in case he forgets what he is. The other key is on the House Master’s set; Bonaventure is split into six houses, and a beta called Mr. Ferdinand Amory is in charge of Garth’s house, Bluewater. Garth says that Amory doesn’t like the two Americans as he thinks they are too loud, but he himself has never had any problems with him. Besides, Amory was up in London when this all happened.”

“How do you think someone other than the three boys could have oiled the connecting door?” Cas asked.

“That would have been easy”, Stamford said. “Bluewater had a fire alarm test last week, and everyone was kept waiting outside in the freezing cold for fifteen minutes. Anyone could have slipped in and done it then. It’s not the sort of thing the boys would have checked at all.”

“Does the museum connect with the room of any other students?” Cas asked. Stamford shook his head.

“There is another door”, Stamford said, “but it leads to a dead-end store room.”

“No joy there, then”, I muttered.

“Was not the compass in a locked case?” Cas asked.

“That was the other thing that was odd”, Stamford said. “Of course I did not tell the authorities what I am about to tell you, but I happen to know that Garth is an excellent lock-picker. Yet the lock was smashed quite crudely.”

“The authorities would doubtless claim that that was him hiding his tracks”, Cas said. “I think it is time I met these three young men, preferably in their own room. Can it be arranged?”

“I am sure they would welcome any help they can get”, Stamford said fervently.

III

A short time later, we did indeed meet the three young men. Fitzgerald was blond, anaemic-looking and seemed like he was at least ten years short of his proclaimed twenty-five, making me feel even older if possible. Zeddmore was a solidly built beta with a stylized (i.e. pretentious) beard and an intelligent expression, whilst Spengler was also a beta, dark-haired, quiet and clearly a little wary of us. All three were English majors, the college policy being to group students on similar courses where possible, after first of course having separated out people by type (omegas at college were almost unknown back then, and of course they could never share with an alpha).

“They had some special guests in to view the exhibits at about two that day”, Fitzgerald explained, “so everyone knew they were there then. Harry and Ed were studying at the library, whilst I was in my room.”

Cas looked pointedly at the two Americans, who both blushed.

“The Carpenter’s Arms, sir”, Zeddmore, muttered, shame-faced. I stared in amazement at my friend. How did he do that?

“We got back at four-thirty, and did actually go to the library for an hour”, Spengler said defensively. “Or so. We didn’t get back to the room until half-five, by which time all hell had broken loose.”

Cas turned to Fitzgerald.

“You were here all the time?” he asked.

“Except for when I got called down to talk to Forster, the beadle”, Fitzgerald said. “That would have been around three-thirty, I think. He had a badly-addressed letter, but we eventually worked out it was actually for Fitzhugh on the second floor. I remember that it was from Tonbridge in Kent, and I do not know anyone there.”

“How long were you gone for?” Cas asked. 

“Barely five minutes, I think. Is it important?”

Cas did not answer him, but looked across to the nearby wall where there was a solid-looking door.

“Where does that lead?” he asked.

“Into Judson’s rooms, which he shares with Hall and Makepeace”, Spengler said. “They're all economics majors, and are on a jaunt down in London this week.”

Cas smiled.

“I think I am beginning to see how this was done”, he said, “but not yet how it can be proven against the obvious culprit. Do all visitors to the house have to sign in?”

“Of course”, Fitzgerald said.

“Then our next port of call is the signing-in book”, Cas said. “Gentlemen, your help today has been invaluable. Mr. Fitzgerald, I hope to have some news for you shortly. Good day!”

He rose and walked swiftly from the room, leaving me to hurry after him. 

+~+~+

“This is a complex crime, doctor”, Cas said as we made our way down from the top floor. “At least three men were implicit in its workings, and it will be hard to break through their ring of deceit. Let us start with our next port of call.”

I realized he had stopped outside the beadle’s rooms.

“The beadle?” I said in a low voice. “But he is a loyal servant of the college!”

“Every crime needs someone who does exactly what he is told”, Cas said. “Think. Part of the crime involved luring Mr. Fitzgerald away from his room long enough for the real perpetrator to escape.”

“But how?” I asked. The museum is on the top floor.”

“We will come to that shortly”, Cas said. “In the meantime, let us see what we can learn from Mr. Forster.”

+~+~+

The beadle was shocked that Mr. Fitzgerald had come under suspicion but then, he said, the man was part-Irish. That sort of bigotry would have been bad enough without Cas’ own Hibernian ancestry, and my fists itched in the irksome man’s presence. It was notable, however, that when Cas asked him how the Fitzhugh letter had arrived in his office, there was a definite pause before his answer, and he looked decidedly shifty. Fortunately for him, Cas did not push the matter. 

Cas did ask to see the list of recent visitors to the house, and told me to copy down all the names from the past ten days, which took some time. After we had left, I asked him why, only for him to pull me into an alcove.

“Watch!” he commanded.

I stared at him, then noticed a figure on the edge of my vision. It was the beadle, whose rotund figure bowled hurriedly across the college green to the Chancellor’s offices where he knocked only briefly before entering. Cas chuckled.

“Loyal, but I doubt the Vice-Chancellor will be pleased when he comes calling”, he said. “Let us go round the back and see what we can see.”

“Why did you want the names of all those people?” I asked.

“I only really wanted the ones who visited on the day of the crime”, Cas said. “One of them is involved in the deed for which Mr. Fitzgerald was blamed. I can telegraph Balthazar the names, and he can hopefully find a link between one of them and the Vice-Chancellor.”

He led me round the back of the college, and I recognized we must be by the corner outside the three students' rooms. Each of the first- and second-floor rooms had their own balcony, albeit only a small one, but there were gargoyles in the forms of carved lions protruding out from between each one. There was no way a man could have leapt over one of those unless he was part monkey.

Cas began looking around the flower beds as if he had lost something, but seemingly without success.

“Rope”, he said. “I was hoping to find some, but it seems it was removed. Never mind. How do you feel about a night in the city?”

“You think we should stay?” I asked.

“From my time in the beadle’s room, I noted that he has a half-day tomorrow when his deputy is in charge”, Cas said. “There are two further things I would like to examine, but I do not wish to alarm the criminals too much by doing so in the beadle’s presence. It would also be good if the Chancellor could be persuaded to rise from his sickbed to join us.”

I nodded, and we left for the town.

IV

The Chancellor was a bandy-legged little alpha called, perhaps appropriately, Mr Charles Wisdom. His doctor had recommended a further week of rest, but on hearing of Cas’ interest in the case he was eager to see the whole matter cleared up. He accompanied us up to the room from where the theft had taken place, and although the climb clearly tired him, he looked keen to find out what we had to say.

“There are three things I would like to examine”, Cas said. “If they are as I expect, then the case is solved, although proving it may be difficult. First, I would like to examine the museum.”

“Of course”, the Chancellor said, producing a huge set of keys and fumbling until he found the correct one for the museum door. “Doubtless you will wish to see the case the compass was taken from?”

No, sir”, Cas said. “I wish to see the store cupboard.

The Chancellor looked more than a little surprised.

“The store cupboard?” he said dubiously.

“Indeed”, Cas said. “I presume it is not locked?”

“Hardly”, the Chancellor said with a laugh. “We do not think thieves will go for mops, buckets and bleach when the room has precious antiques in it!”

He unlocked the room which was dark, lit only by a small slatted window at the back. Cas looked around the room and smiled.

“What were you expecting to find?” the Chancellor asked.

“It was more a case of what I was expecting not to find”, Cas said. “All is as I suspected.”

“You are not thinking that a man could have gained access through that window, surely?” the Chancellor asked querulously. “It is far too small, and it opens out onto a sheer wall.”

“That was not my idea”, Cas said. “May we see Mr. Judson's room, please?”

“I hope you are not going to suggest that he had anything to do with the crime”, the Chancellor said as he followed us out of the museum, locking the door behind us. “Not only was he absent at the time of the theft, but his father is one of the college's major benefactors, and a most respectable person.”

“My current theory would place Mr. Judson clear of any involvement”, Cas said. “Though in his absence, his rooms played a major part in the crime.”

He would say no more until we entered a set of rooms almost identical to Mr. Fitzgerald's.

“The connecting doors were locked when we put in fire-escapes”, the Chancellor explained. “Before then, there was the danger people could be trapped in a room with no way out. They are not used now.”

Cas pointed to the hinges of the door into Fitzgerald's room, and we both moved closer to look. They had clearly been oiled.

“Oiled from this side”, Cas pointed out. “I did a quick check whilst we in the other room, and there was no application of oil there. Since Mr. Fitzgerald had no access to this room, he could not have done this.”

“An accomplice?” the Chancellor suggested.

“There were at least three men in this crime”, Cas said. “I have one more thing to look at, then I shall hopefully be able to explain it to you. Though I should warn you now, it will not be good news.”

He walked over to the balcony door before he Chancellor could say anything, opened it and stepped out. The balcony itself was barely big enough for a single chair, and had iron railings around the edge. Cas looked at them, and smiled again. 

“All is as I thought”, he said. “Chancellor, we will adjourn to your offices, and discuss matters there.”

I looked at the balcony, but could not see anything out of the ordinary about it. Sighing, I followed my friend.

+~+~+

Outside the Chancellor's offices, he was met by his secretary.

“Mr. Barrowman has had to go into town unexpectedly, sir”, she said. “He said he might have to spend the night there.”

I looked at Cas in alarm – this was one of his suspects, surely? - but the man seemed unperturbed. 

“Thank you, Miss Truman”, the Chancellor said. “Will you please ensure that we are not disturbed?”

The secretary looked at us curiously, and nodded. The Chancellor ushered us into his study and bade us sit down.

“I have good news and bad news", Cas said. "The good news is that I have some hopes of recovering your stolen compass.”

“That is good”, the man smiled.

“The bad news is that you have almost certainly been the victim of fraud over a period of some time, and your college's financial position may be perilous in the extreme.”

“That cannot be so”, the Chancellor said roundly. “Mr. Barrowman has been acting as bursar during the past three months, and would have told me of any such problems.”

Cas looked at our host pointedly. It took him some time to get it, but when he did, he went pale.

“Silas?” he quavered. 

Cas nodded.

“Mr. Barrowman saw a chance to enrich himself, and to then disappear with your money”, he said gently. “I fear that you will find that the cupboard, so to speak, is bare.”

“No!”

“Not content with that, he saw a chance to enrich himself even further by effecting the theft of your Elizabethan compass”, Cas continued. “I do have some hopes there, however. The item is only truly valuable to someone who would appreciate it, and I think it almost certain that it was, as the saying goes, 'stolen to order'. A telegram I received from my brother this morning tells me that someone whose scruples are what might charitably be called 'flexible' has recently acquired just such an item. God willing, we may recover it.”

“That is something”, the Chancellor said, still looking shaken. “But how? How was it done?”

Cas sat back.

V

“As I said, there were at least three people involved”, he said. “The Vice-Chancellor, an associate of his, and the beadle. The Vice-Chancellor's role was critical. Once you were ill, he arranged for the three boys in the room next door but one to the museum to be sent on a week-long field trip to London. Their room was a pivotal part of the plan to throw suspicion on Mr. Fitzgerald and/or his room-mates. He also set a fire-alarm test, so he could oil and unlock the doors between Mr. Fitzgerald's and the adjoining rooms.”

“On the day of the theft, he arranged for a small party to visit the museum under his watch. It was easy for him to add an extra member to the party, who signed in under a false name. Had the police been more thorough and started investigating those who came to the museum that day, I am sure that the associate would have been identified by the Vice-Chancellor as someone who left the room with him. Of course he did no such thing.”

“Where was he?” the Chancellor asked.

“Left behind in the room”, Cas said. “The Vice-Chancellor saw the other guests out – all innocent people, I should add – as they finished viewing, then followed at some distance, apparently talking to his associate. If asked, the beadle would have agreed that the Vice-Chancellor passed by his room talking with the associate. What actually happened was that the associate was left in the cupboard until the Vice-Chancellor could be certain that Mr. Fitzgerald, or failing that one of his room-mates, were in the next room. The signal was presumably that if the Vice-Chancellor did not return within a set time, then the theft could go ahead.”

“How do you know this associate waited in the store cupboard?” the Chancellor asked. “I saw no signs of anyone having been there.”

“Precisely”, Cas said.

We both looked at him.

“The shelves were as dusty as one might have expected, but the floor had been very recently swept”, he said. “And very thoroughly too. Someone did not want to risk the danger of a presence being detected.”

“I see a flaw in what happened next, though”, the Chancellor said. “The museum has a fire door that the thief could have used.”

“True”, Cas said, “except the stairs come down onto the path along the back of the college. I examined the area earlier, and noted that it is also a public footpath, and that traffic along it is heavy. A man exiting out of a fire-door would attract at least some attention. No, he walks though Mr. Fitzgerald's room into Mr. Judson's.”

“But Mr. Fitzgerald would have seen him!” I objected.

“You are forgetting the beadle”, Cas said. “He has been provided with a badly-addressed letter, and some little time after the Vice-Chancellor has left, the beadle summons Mr. Fitzgerald down to get it. Our associate is waiting to hear the door open, and he knows the coast is clear, passing through Mr. Fitzgerald's room into Mr Judson's, which the Vice-Chancellor will be able to lock later in all the confusion.”

“How did he get out of Mr. Judson's room?” the Chancellor asked. “That is directly opposite the staircase, and the next room was occupied.!

“He descended from the balcony”, Cas said. “If you had looked closely at the railings, you would have noticed that one of them was slightly bent, and had some rope marks on it. The associate tied a rope around it and descended that way, then fled the college. Although it adjoins Mr. Fitzgerald's room, Mr. Judson's window faces south, not east, and a most convenient large and frankly ugly tree hides it from the footpath.”

“And now Silas has the money!” the Chancellor groaned.

Cas smiled.

“He will not get far”, he said soothingly. “Indeed, if we are lucky he will lead us straight to his associate. I have had two men trailing him since he arrived here this morning.”

+~+~+

As so often, Cas was proven right. Mr. Silas Barrowman went straight to the London house of the man he had employed in the robbery, a Mr. Robert Ventura, and both men were quickly arrested. Unfortunately much of the money the Vice-Chancellor had stolen had either been spent or could not be found, although both men got sentences sufficiently long that they would never be able to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. It emerged that the Vice-Chancellor had blackmailed the beadle into helping him, and because of that the man was allowed to retire rather than be sacked, which I supposed was fair enough. The compass was traced to its new 'owner', and now resides back at Bonaventure. Cas' father kindly helped the college out with some financial backing to see them through the troubles caused by their thieving Vice-Chancellor, and young Stamford thanked us for helping out his friend.

I still felt old, though.

+~+~+

Next, the strange case of the murder of Cardinal Tosca – and why some people should not believe everything they read in the newspapers....


	12. Case 79: All Dogs Go To Heaven (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the murder of Cardinal Tosca'.

I

Contrary to what Cas said, I did not preen! However, the review in the Times of his latest adventure that I had had published in the Strand magazine, 'After-School Special', had been some way beyond glowing. I redoubled my efforts to finish 'Jump The Shark', and hoped that I would get more cases that I would lay before the British public, so they could fully understand my friend's genius.

In our next case, I was (in the short term at least) to be disappointed.

+~+~+

The alpha who sat before us in the fireside chair at Baker Street that cold April morning could easily have been a young clerk or minor government official, though he barely looked his claimed thirty years of age. An age I knew because I had read of his appointment as secretary to the papal legate a few months back, as I knew his name was Pietro Falcone. The case he had brought to us was to prove most definitely one of the strangest Cas had ever solved, and one where the consequences could have been quite serious, yet also one of the most comical in its eventual resolution. Though the look on Mr. Falcone’s face was far from comical that cold April morn.  
   
“I have read the good doctor’s stories of your achievements, sir”, our visitor said to Cas, “and I know how integral he is to your work. It is a strange case I lay before you today, as it may be one of murder.”  
   
Cas raised an eyebrow at him.  
   
“You are unsure as to whether someone has been murdered?” he asked, clearly a little bemused.  
   
The answer was even stranger.  
   
“Sir, I am unsure as to whether the victim actually even existed!”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“To begin with”, our guest said, a look of distaste on his young features, “I must talk a little politics. As you are doubtless aware, the position of the Holy Father at the moment is a precarious one. Ever since the unification of Italy, popes have been all but prisoners behind the walls of the Vatican, whilst the Italian kings have stripped the Papacy of its rightful possessions up and down the peninsula. Pope Leo is a good man and surely has many years left in him, but it is what happens when he does ascend to Heaven that concerns me.”

I thought back to Verona, and our first venture into papal politics over the stolen cameos.  
   
“Popes are elected by a conclave, are they not?” I asked. He nodded.  
   
“That is part of the problem”, he said. “The cardinals who make the decision are very finely balanced, between what you might term conservatives and liberals in your country. One influential red hat with a few followers could swing things either way. It is that which has brought me to your door today.”  
   
He opened his polished brown brief-case and extracted a newspaper, which was folded to a certain page. He handed it to Cas, who read the marked item before passing it to me. The paper was the Times (excellent book reviews), and the article read as follows:  
   
‘Regrets for the untimely passing of the late lamented Cardinal Tosca. May he be blest with a fast track to heaven, where all such souls rightly go.’  
   
“Who is this ‘Cardinal Tosca’?” Cas asked.  
   
Our visitor shrugged his shoulders.  
   
“We have no idea”, he said. “Unfortunately the recent upheavals mean we have lost touch with many of the more distant cardinals, and as the last election was seventeen years ago, our records are not just incomplete but out-of-date. The instability caused by such a tiny article has been terrible. Both sides suspect the other of removing someone from their own side, and there may even be a schism. All because of two lines in a foreign newspaper!”

(It should be noted at this point that the Thunderer of those times was even more powerful than it is today, and that it had successfully forced changes on government and businesses on more than one occasion).  
   
Cas frowned.  
   
“This is a private article”, he said. “Surely it would be possible to approach the newspaper and ask them for the name of the person who submitted it? I know the Times protects its own, but if they came to understand the political ramifications, they might make an exception?”  
   
Our visitor blushed.  
   
“With things the way they are”, he said carefully, “I was summonsed back to Rome last week to talk directly with the Holy Father himself. Neither side trusts the other to investigate the case fairly – but your name, sir, is renowned, and everyone knows that you follow the path of justice before that of the law. I am instructed to ask if you would be so kind as to investigate this matter for us, and to communicate your results through me directly to the Holy Father himself.”  
   
I knew that, despite his angelic name, Cas had little in the way of religion himself. I myself did not go to the Sunday services, but liked to spend some time quietly by myself in the local parish church when no-one else was about.  
   
“I would be honoured to take the case”, Cas said with a smile.  
   
“If you bring your findings to my house when you are done, I can send them to Rome securely”, Mr. Falcone said, depositing a card onto the fireside table. “Though of course we would telegraph the Holy Father first, to assure him all was well. If, that is, all is well.”  
   
He stood and bowed to us, then left. Cas stared thoughtfully into the fire.  
   
“This is odd”, I said. “It cannot be murder, surely? One does not murder someone, and then advertise the fact in the Times of all places!”  
   
He smiled.  
   
“Unless, of course, the entire plan is to cause instability in the Vatican”, he observed. “Remember, Pope Leo still has to recognize King Umberto as a rightful ruler, and that must sting as it means many Catholics around the world will feel compelled to follow his lead. The Italians may feel that an unstable Vatican might lead Pope Leo to ‘come to heel’, so to speak.”  
   
“Damned Eye-ties!” I said fervently.  
   
Cas smiled.  
   
+~+~+  
   
That same afternoon, we went to the offices of the Times newspaper itself. The clerk who greeted us was polite enough, but unfortunately the article had been placed anonymously and paid for in cash. It seemed we were at a dead-end, and Cas might have to call in his brother Balthazar for help, which for me was an awful thought.  
   
Our evening back at Baker Street was interrupted, however, by the arrival of a young beta, who introduced himself as Mr. Peter Tadworth, a clerk at the very newspaper we had not long come from. He had overheard our conversation with his superior, and whilst he had of course been unable to say anything at the time, he knew our address from my books, and wished to help.  
   
“I was there when the man put the article in”, he said, “though it was Ben – Mr. Ploughwright – who took it all down. I thought it was odd, the wording and all, and the man had to sign his name in our book, so I noted it down, though I only saw it for a second; our Mr. Buckle keeps it with him at all times. He was a Mr. Alfred Wright.”  
   
“A common enough name”, I said with a sigh. “There must be dozens of them in London.”  
   
“Can you describe him?” Cas asked.  
   
“Between forty and fifty, grey hair, medium build”, the young clerk said. “I did not get close to him, but I think me might be a beta, from his size and stature. His clothes were dark and a little shabby. And he had the purple temperance badge sewn into his cloak. I saw it as he took it off the coat-stand. Oh, and his accent was not from the area, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t East End either. I’ve an aunt who lives there, you see.”  
   
“Thank you for bringing this information to us”, Cas said, slipping him a coin. The young man’s eyes lit up when he saw it (Cas was always far too generous, in my opinion), and he bowed himself out, almost falling over his feet in the process.  
   
“I shall probably still have to call in the resources of my brother”, Cas said with a sigh. “The temperance movements are not much less secretive than the Thunderer, at the end of the day.”  
   
“After all the times you have saved his bacon, he should be pleased to help you”, I insisted.  
   
He smiled, and jotted down a telegram before summoning a boy. It was late, but if his brother got the note tonight them perhaps by tomorrow or the day after, we could be on our way.  
   
II  
   
It turned out that I had been right about the commonness of the article-writer’s name, and we were fortunate that young Mr. Tadworth had been so observant over the temperance badge. Balthazar found four temperance society Alfred Wrights for us that were roughly in the right age range; two at a society based in the Minories, a third at one in King’s Cross, and a fourth further out at one in Walthamstow. Since the message reached us relatively late in the day, we decided to wait until the next day to visit all three.  
   
However, that day and the next saw London embraced in a pea-souper of a fog, and all travel seemed inadvisable. I spent the morning of the following day working on my writings, whilst Cas went out to see a client over some trifling matter. At least it had seemed small, but when he did not come back for lunch as he had planned, I started to grow worried. And even more so when dinner came up and he was still not back.

When he did finally come back through the door, it was quickly clear that he was in a foul mood. I hurried over to him.

“Have you eaten?” I asked anxiously.

He shook his head, and shuddered as he all but fell into me.

“Family!” he muttered angrily.

I surmised, correctly as it would turn out, that Cas' family had once more done something to upset him. 

“Shall we go out for some food?” I suggested. “I do not want to risk Mrs. Harvelle's wrath this late in the evening, though as it is you, I am sure she would not mind.”

He shook his head again.

“She is making me some sandwiches”, he said, peeling himself away from me. I immediately felt cold at his absence. I am soaked to the skin. I need to change.”

He almost staggered across to his door and closed it behind him. Seconds later, there was a knock at the door, and with Mrs. Harvelle's usual hyper-efficiency it was a maid with Cas' food. I thanked her and took it to the table, then went over to his room. For once I didn't knock, but walked straight in. He was just standing by the bed, looking forlorn and still in his wet clothes.

“Come on”, I said firmly. He needed warming up, and the first job was to get him out of those sodden layers. I stripped him as quickly as I could, then led him un-protestingly to the bathroom, where I stared to run a hot bath, adding his favourite bubble-bath under the steaming water. I was testing the waters when he suddenly grabbed me by the arm.

“Don't leave me!” he said urgently.

“Never!” I said firmly. I turned off the tap and shrugged off my dressing-gown – fortunately I had got ready for bed shortly before his return – then I led him into the bath and sat us both down, his smaller form nestling back into mine with a contented sigh amidst the foaming bubbles. I cursed silently that I had forgotten to bring in the sandwiches, but we would not be in there for long.

Cas slowly unwound to me as to why he had been gone for so long. The 'client' had turned out to be a ruse for Cas' father and elder brothers to see him, and he had been far from pleased. It turned out that Lucifer Novak, whose wife I knew had died some years back, had taken up with a distant omega cousin, one Samandriel Novak, but as the relationship was just close enough for the Church to forbid any union, Lucifer had, typically, married him anyway, and quickly put him 'in the family way', to use that delightful Victorian phrase. The family was torn between his parents, who hoped for a reconciliation, and his brothers Michael and Raphael, who wanted him to be formally disinherited. Naturally the battle had drawn in Cas and my relationship, which Michael and Raphael both disapproved of strongly, and Words had been exchanged.

It did not help matters that Michael's wife, Rachel, had at this time produced four children none of whom had been the much-desired alpha. Raphael remained unmarried, which I suppose reflected the good taste of omegas and ladies in the capital. Of course there was always the possibility that the next generation might yield one – alpha genes were known to lie dormant for a generation sometimes – but I felt angry that the two elder Novaks were picking on Cas because of their own failings.

The man nestled into me even further, seemingly trying to push me out of the bath, and I began to soap him down gently, working the cold out of his tired skin. We might both be alphas, but as far as I was concerned Cas was my mate, and it was my job to care for him. Always and forever.

III

Cas said nothing about his family problems the following day, but the look he gave me when I held him that morning was of such undying gratitude that I nearly burst with happiness. Fortunately the fog had cleared enough for us to set out on our travels, and we started with the Alfred Wright in King’s Cross.  
   
“Fifty-nine, an alpha and a bank clerk”, I said dubiously. “He does not exactly seem to have gotten on in life.”  
   
“That from a forty-three-year-old man who was only recently panicking about how old he was?” Cas teased. 

I swatted at him. I had been more than energetic enough the night before when he had demanded I take him before we both fell asleep, and he should have remembered that!  
   
“I wonder what made him drink?” I mused.  
   
“His file says that his wife died some years back”, Cas observed. “Presumably that drove him to alcohol. Apparently he has been sober for at least a year.”  
   
“How can they be sure?” I asked.  
   
“No-one can”, Cas said. “Every man is, to a certain extent, an island, and their own judge, jury and executioner. But I dare say the temperance society has various ways and means of finding those who have ‘fallen off the wagon’.”  
   
Alfred Wright (number one) lived in a small terraced house not far from the Great Northern Railway’s terminus. It was a mean building, but the outside looked well cared-for. It was a day off from the bank, as he only worked three days a week there. He had no idea about the advertisement, or any clue as to who ‘Cardinal Tosca’ was. We met further dead-ends with the two Alfred Wrights in the Minories; the first, an omega, had been down with chicken-pox for the past two weeks, and the other, although a beta and matching the physical description fairly well, had been visiting a relative in a Chelmsford hospital on the day in question.  
   
“Though he could have been lying”, I said, feeling even as I spoke that I was clutching at straws.  
   
“To what end?” Cas asked. “He must know that we could check his story. No, if our last port of call does not yield anything, we are faced with the fact that the man who placed the article used a pseudonym. In short, we would have very little to go on.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
The fourth Alfred Wright was about thirty-five, an alpha with striking blond hair and was over six foot tall. One look at him told me we would probably not be lucky here. But as it happened, I was wrong.  
   
Cas showed him the advertisement, and we both saw immediately how the man reddened. He knew something – but what?  
   
“It is devilishly awkward”, he said. “It’s not my place to tell you, and I’d really appreciate it if you kept my name out of it.”  
   
“Despite the doctor’s popular writings, we can be surprisingly discreet”, Cas said, avoiding my glare. “If you can supply us with information to solve this case, we would not reveal how we came by it.”  
   
“May I ask how you came by my name?” Mr. Wright asked.  
   
“The gentleman who placed this advertisement signed the ledger”, Cas explained, “and a source of ours – whom of course we may not name – passed the information onto us.”  
   
“The man you want is certainly a fellow member of the society”, the man said. “His name is Hieronymous Crosby, so I cannot wonder that he preferred to sign using my name.”  
   
“Forties, grey hair, medium build and a beta?” I asked.  
   
“He is fifty-two, but yes, that sounds like him”, Mr, Wright said. “And this is the sort of thing he would do. We work at the same bank, you see, and some of the other men teased him about this when they read it.”  
   
“So you know who ‘Cardinal Tosca’ is?” I asked.  
   
He smiled, looking a little sad as he did so.  
   
“I think it best if Mr. Crosby tells you himself”, he said. “But I will tell you one thing, gentleman. Cardinal Tosca is – or was – female!”  
   
I stared in astonishment.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Mr. Hieronymous Crosby lived in Hackney, so we travelled back as far as Hackney Downs Station before a short cab ride took us to his house, which though modest backed onto open fields. There was no answer when we came to the door, so we went round the back. A middle aged man was sat reading on a bench, a greyhound resting at his feet, looking supremely bored at his master’s inactivity. It looked up as we approached, then apparently dismissed us as unimportant and laid its head down again.  
   
“Mr. Hieronymous Crosby?” Cas asked.  
   
There was a smile in his voice, and I looked at him in surprise. He knew something. But what?  
   
“Yes, sirs”, the man said politely. “And you are?”  
   
“Mr. Castiel Novak and Doctor Dean Winchester”, Cas said. “We have come about your article in the Times.”  
   
The man turned a strange shade of red.  
   
“I have heard of your fame, Mr. Novak, but I hardly think my private matters merit your interest, especially after the ribbing I have endured at work since it appeared.”  
   
Cas did not reply, but looked down at the dog.  
   
“Who is this?” he asked.  
   
The man looked at him suspiciously.  
   
“This is Cate”, he said. 

IV  
   
“Yet dogs, like horses, have longer, official names”, Cas said. “Does Cate partake in these new greyhound races that are all the rage?”  
   
“She is too young”, the man said defensively. “When she is a little older, I may enter her.”  
   
“And she is named after her mother, is she not?” Cas asked.  
   
I still had no idea what he was driving at, but if possible Mr. Crosby turned even redder.  
   
“You know”, he said sullenly.  
   
“You may care to learn”, Cas said, “that your fond farewell nearly generated an international incident.”  
   
“What?” the man exclaimed, clearly shocked. “How?”  
   
“When the different factions at the papal court in Rome read about the death of one ‘Cardinal Tosca', they were worried”, Cas said. “Each naturally assumed the worst of the other, as always in politics. Yet the clue was there, was it not? When you talked about your late dog ‘taking the fast track’, you were referring to a race-track. And the heaven reference was because, per the saying, all dogs go to heaven.”  
   
“Cate is up there now”, the man said confidently. “Heaven would not be Heaven without dogs. My friends think I am mad to value my canine friends above my human ones, but dogs have always treated me better. Especially of late.”  
   
“May I ask how Cate’s mother died?” Cas asked.  
   
The man’s face darkened.  
   
“Murdered!” he spat out.  
   
“Who would kill a dog?” I asked.  
   
“Bill Whittle, that’s who!” the man said angrily.  
   
Cas gave him a look that said quite clearly ‘explain, please’.  
   
“When I joined the society, they got me a job at the local bank”, Mr. Crosby explained. “Three days a week and on trial for a year, but if I stayed clean, they said they’d consider me for full-time. But Bill wanted his son to join him there, so he thought poisoning poor Cate would cause me to 'fall off the wagon’.”  
   
“Are you sure of this?” Cas asked. The man nodded.  
   
“My neighbour saw him come to my house one day when I was visiting my sister, and drop something in the garden”, he said. “Cate died of eating poisoned meat the next day, and the doctor tested the remains of the meat for me. He all but boasted about it to the other guys at work, and Alfie Wright told me in private.”  
   
“I see”, Cas said icily. “Pray, which bank do you work at, Mr. Crosby?”  
   
“Dodgson’s, in Tottenham High Road”, he said. “Why?”  
   
“Just curious”, Cas said, looking at his watch. He pulled out his notebook and wrote something down, which he passed to Mr. Crosby. “That is the address of one Mr. Alfred Moray. I think you two share a lot in common. You may find a visit to him interesting. Thank you for your time, sir. Goodbye, Cardinal Tosca.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“He nearly caused an international incident by saying a farewell to his dog?” I said incredulously as we walked back to the high road to hail a cab.  
   
“Man’s best friend”, Cas reminded me. “Think on it, doctor. We see all types of humanity in our line of work, from the truly good to the purely evil. Yet a dog is only bad if someone deliberately and maliciously trains it so to be. They are the children of our world, and it is unsurprising that some value them so highly.”  
   
“I do not mind dogs”, I said. “It is cats I am allergic to.”  
   
“Ah.”  
   
I looked at him warily.  
   
“Ah?”  
   
“I may have asked Mrs. Harvelle what she and Mr. Singer would like as a wedding-present. And her answer may have had a certain feline quality about it.”  
   
I groaned. Any cat in the neighbourhood seemed to be able to detect my allergy, and would try to clamber all over me if it could. And now 221B might be getting its own.  
   
“Maybe I should get a dog”, I pouted.  
   
Cas laughed.  
   
+~+~+  
   
To my surprise, Cas directed the cab-driver not to Baker Street but to Mr. Crosby’s bank. Walking in, he asked politely if the manager could spare him a few moments of his time. We were shown quickly into the offices of an alpha called Mr. Oliver Smith who was clearly of conflicting emotions; pleased to meet someone famous, but nervous lest his bank be dragged into some investigation of ours.  
   
“I would like to begin”, Cas said firmly, “by assuring you that the highly sensitive and important international investigation I have just concluded in no way reflects badly on this illustrious institution.”  
   
Mr. Smith’s relief was palpable.  
   
“That is good news, sir”, he said. “May I ask what brings you here today, then?”  
   
Cas leaned forward conspiratorially.  
   
“You should be aware, however, that your bank was within a hair's breadth of being dragged into that investigation, which centred around a major European power.”  
   
I suppressed a smile. The Papacy was hardly a major power. But the effect on Mr. Smith was strong indeed; he went very pale, and ran his finger around his collar.”  
   
“The strange part was”, Cas said, “that this all arose because of a malicious action perpetrated by one of your employees on another one. I am sure that when Mr. William Whittle decided to poison the dog of Mr. Hieronymous Crosby, he could not know that such major ramifications would follow. Fortunately I have been able to solve the case whilst maintaining the veil of diplomatic secrecy, though it has been a close-run thing. Had events turned out differently, the whole farrago would have been traced to your bank, and your name would have been in all the newspapers.”  
   
“Papers?” Mr. Smith almost squeaked.  
   
“Indeed”, Cas said. “And I am sure I do not have to remind someone as intelligent as your good self that our visit today was purely a courtesy call, and we discussed absolutely nothing whatsoever of any great import. Or do I?”  
   
He stared meaningfully at the bank manager, who looked as if he might need my professional services any minute.  
   
“But all is well now?” he managed.  
   
“For now”, Cas said, “but you may wish to monitor your Mr. Whittle a little more closely in future. He is, as the saying goes, prone to make a crisis out of a drama. The next time, his employer might not be so fortunate. Remember, you must tell no-one about what we have discussed. Good day, sir.”  
   
He stood up and strode quickly from the room. I hurried after him.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“A major power?” I laughed when we were safely on the train. “Really?”  
   
“I do not like bullies”, Cas said. “I think the callous Mr. Whittle may find his life quite difficult over the next few months, and that is as it should be.”  
   
I chuckled again, as our suburban train chuffed its way slowly back to Liverpool Street.

+~+~+

Our next case once more involved a young client – and Cas taking an unfair advantage of one of my many weaknesses.....


	13. Case 80: Citizen Fang (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of Black Peter'.

I

During our recent second dose of 'papal business', I mentioned that I was strongly allergic to cats. I should have known better, as clearly someone upstairs was listening in for an opportunity to make my life more difficult. Our next case involved not just a four-legged fur-ball, but also one of the more unusual clients to sit in the famous fireside chair at 221B Baker Street.

My literary career was such at this time that I had dropped to just doing one day a week at the surgery, usually Mondays (plus emergency call-outs of course), in order to devote more time to my writings. 'Jump The Shark' (our adventure at Wisteria Lodge) had just been serialized in the Strand magazine, and had been very well-received. In addition, the British weather had belatedly seemed to remember that it had seasons other than wet and wetter, and it was on this warm July day that our landlady ascended to announce our latest client. Mrs. Harvelle looked strangely uncertain, which considering the depth and breadth of humanity that she had ushered into our rooms was a little strange. At least, until we saw our visitor.

She was.... short. And young.

“Miss Emily Madeley”, Mrs. Harvelle announced, before withdrawing. 

The girl she left behind could not have been more than ten years old, a pretty blonde thing in a white dress that looked like it belonged in an advertisement rather than on a busy London street. She looked at me thoughtfully.

“You're the taller one, so you must be Doctor Winchester”, she said after a while.

“I am”, I said, bowing, “and this is Mr. Castiel Novak.”

Cas had been sat opposite me at the table, and stood up to bow to our guest before escorting her over to the fireside chair. Once she was seated, he sat opposite her, and she eyed him thoughtfully.

“This is where you say that I'm very young”, she said pointedly.

I suppressed a smile at her frankness.

“Madam”, Cas said courteously, “if that were the limit of my powers, you would not be here to request my services today. How may I be of assistance, pray?”

“I wish you to find Blackie. My cat.”

To his credit, Cas did not look surprised. Then again, he had been asked to find even more trivial things for people. Far too often, in my opinion. 

“This 'Blackie' has gone missing?” Cas asked.

“He has been taken”, she said firmly. “He is a Siamese cat, one year and five months old, and Mother takes him to shows and things, which he hates. He has a black head and tail, but only three of his legs are fully black, the off-front being white. His full name is Black Peter of Novgorod, which is silly, but that's grown-ups for you!”

I smiled at her open disdain. However, further conversation was prevented by a second knock at the door, and Mrs. Harvelle ushered in a frantic-looking woman who sighed in relief when she saw the girl.

“Emily!” she said reprovingly. “I told you to wait outside the jewellery store for me. Why did you not?”

“I wished to see Mr. Novak and his friend”, she said blithely. Her mother sighed.

“I am sorry, gentlemen”, she said ruefully. “My name is Mrs. Madeley, and this is my daughter Emily. I tried telling her that you do not investigate lost pets, but she is so determined when she gets her mind set on something. I am sorry she has troubled you.”

Cas looked at her with his head tilted to one side, an expression that I knew denoted confusion.

“It is true that we rarely take such cases”, Cas admitted, “but since your daughter has put such an effort into bringing the case to my attention, then the least I can do is investigate it as far as possible. Though I should say”, he continued, turning to the girl, “that contrary to the stories the doctor writes, not all my cases end successfully. It may be that your cat cannot be recovered for some reason. But yes, I am inclined to look into your case.”

The girl looked insufferably smug, whilst her mother looked even more worried.

“But Mr. Novak, we cannot....”

“There will be no charge unless the cat is safely returned”, Cas cut in. “Should I manage to achieve that, I shall require Miss Emily to do two things. First, to provide me a picture of the cat that she has drawn herself, as a memento of the case. And second, to promise never to run off without her mother's permission again, even if it is to see a famous detective. Those shall be my charges for this case.”

“Thank you!” the girl cried. Cas gestured for me to get my notebook, and once I was ready and had shown Mrs. Madeley to a seat, he turned back to the lady's daughter. I readied my pen.

“One of the most important things in solving a crime is factual evidence”, he said. “I need as much information as possible. Now, on what day was this horrible crime perpetrated?”

“Yesterday”, the girl said. “I played with Blackie before I went to school in the morning, at about half-past eight. He was gone when I came home at just after three o'clock.”

She stared almost accusingly at her mother, who blushed.

“We recently moved to The Firs, a large detached house in St. John's Wood”, Mrs. Madeley said. “Emily is our oldest child; we also have two sons John and Peter, both alphas and both of whom are away at boarding-school. The house is in Oak-Tree Close, not far from St. John's Wood Road Station.”

“What servants do you have there?” Cas asked.

“The cook, Mrs. Callington. Kay the parlourmaid and Bessie the housemaid. Thomas, my husband's valet, and June, my own personal maid. Drayton the butler. Oh, and the nanny, Miss Gorringe.”

The girl leaned forward slightly.

“I do not like Miss Gorringe”, she said conspiratorially.

“Emily!” her mother said reprovingly.

“Why not?” Cas asked.

“She's creepy. And she wears make-up!”

I barely managed to turn a laugh into a cough. The girl said those words as if the nanny had committed some grievous sin. She stared at me suspiciously, but I was thankfully saved by Cas' next question to her mother.

“Do the servants live in?” he asked.

“No”, she said. “George – my husband – chose the house because it was small but had large grounds. Which reminds me, we also have a gardener, John-Paul, but he was away visiting his father that day, and he lives all the way over in Harrow.”

“Nevertheless, we must check him out”, Cas said. “We must leave no stone un-turned. May I assume that the feline in question was valuable?”

“Extremely”, Mrs. Madeley said. “I have had several offers from people who want her to..... er, to entertain him. You know.”

“You mean to breed from him, mummy”, the girl said, causing her mother to look utterly mortified. "I am ten, you know!”

I bit my lip. The girl may not yet have been a teenager, but she could pull off scornful disdain with aplomb. Her mother had gone bright red, and I caught a twinkle in my friend's blue eyes which I knew denoted his own amusement.

“I think it would be most useful to visit the scene of the crime”, he said. “Are you ladies finished with your London shopping for the day?”

“Yes, we are”, Mrs. Madeley said, clearly still surprised that Cas had taken her daughter's case. 

“Then if it is all right, the doctor and I will accompany you back to St. John's Wood”, Cas said with a smile. “I know he is working hard to document my cases, but a few hours of country air will do wonders for him. It may even improve the scrawl that masquerades as his handwriting!”

I scowled at him for that.

II

The Firs was an unusual house in that, as Mrs. Madeley had described it, it was relatively small compared to its spacious grounds. My eyes were already watering, and there wasn't even a cat present. Cas turned to Mrs. Madeley.

“Is Blackie a house-cat?” he asked. 

“Most definitely”, she said firmly. “The only times we offered him the chance to go outside, he would take one look, stick his tail in the air and stroll back to his basket.”

“How do your staff feel about him?” Cas asked.

“I suppose the maids are not too fond of all the cat-hair”, the lady said, “but it is their job, after all. Or more Bessie's job, I should say.”

“I will need a full list of the addresses of all your staff”, Cas said. “Would you be able to write one out for me whilst your daughter shows me the areas that her beloved pet preferred?”

“Of course”, Mrs. Madeley said. “Just be careful in the kitchen, Emily. Mrs. Callington is cooking dinner just now, and you know how she does not like to be disturbed.”

She left us with her daughter and went into a side-room. Miss Madeley showed up the pet room where the cat slept, and Cas carefully extracted some hair from the cat's bed and placed it in a small brown envelope, writing 'evidence' on it in capital letters. It clearly impressed Miss Madeley, who then led us to the library and then upstairs to the sun-room.”

“Blackie likes the library because it is cool”, she said, “and for when he feels poorly. But this is the only place he goes outside. He likes to sun himself on the balcony, which gets the sun for most of the day. Janet or Bessie let him out, and there is a small cat-door which he can use to get back in again.”

“Might not a thief be able to take him from here?” I asked, looking around at the view. Cas shook his head.

“It is too open”, he said, looking into the distance. “Miss Emily, do you know where that path goes?”

She looked where he was pointing.

“That is the only thing Mother and Father do not like about the house”, she said with a pout. “A public footpath; our land runs right up to it. Daddy wanted to build a fence next to it to stop people walking onto our property, but the man at the council wouldn't let him.”

“Typical busybodies!” I grunted. “A man should be able to do what he wants on his own land!”

Cas was staring out across the land, deep in thought.

“Miss Emily”, he said eventually, “who feeds Blackie?”

“Mrs. Callington”, she said. “Or at least she prepares the food; she says cats should be treated with respect. Blackie knows better than to go to the kitchen, so Kay usually puts his food here, and he comes and eats it when he is ready.”

“She does not bring his food out here, then?” Cas asked. The girl laughed.

“Blackie is a dear, but we don't make the maids wait on him hand and foot!” she said. 

“Hmm”, Cas said. “One more question. How is Blackie around strangers?”

“He hates them”, the girl said roundly. “Every time we have guests to the house, he has to be shut away.”

“I see”, Cas said. “I think it would be an idea if you go and politely approach Mrs. Callington, and ask if it is acceptable for me to ask her some questions at this time, or if she is too busy. I know how important cooks are these days.”

I was surprised at that, but he nodded, and she skipped away. Once she was gone, Cas turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course”, I said. “What?”

“Whilst I am questioning the cook, who will I suspect have little to tell us, I wish you to measure something. Go to the room below this balcony, and walk fairly quickly from the house over to the nearest point of that footpath. I need to know how long it takes for an adult man to traverse that distance. Also, take a look in the flower-beds beneath the balcony, and see if there is anything unusual there.”

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

“Possibly nothing”, he said. “It is just a hunch.”

I resisted the urge to swat at him. Just.

+~+~+

“It took me ninety-three seconds to reach the path”, I told him when we met up soon afterwards. “And someone had been round behind the rhododendron bush on the north side of the balcony; there were footprints leading in and out. Size eight, and a worn shoe.”

“Excellent!” he beamed. “And I was wrong about the cook. She did have some information pertinent to the case.”

“How so?” I asked.

“She told me that someone set off a firework in the road outside the day the cat was taken”, Cas said.

“And that is useful information?” I asked.

“Indeed”, he said. “It brings me closer to solving the case. 

Miss Madeley skipped up to us.

“Have you solved it yet?” she asked eagerly.

Cas chuckled.

“I must tell the doctor not to persist in making my craft look so easy”, Cas smiled. “Miss Emily, you are clearly a young lady of forthright opinions, so I would prefer to ask you certain questions rather than your mother. Pray, what does your father do for a living?”

She scrunched up her nose as in distaste.

“Father works in a bank!” she said glumly. She sounded so depressed at the fact that I nearly laughed.

“Does he or your mother play with Blackie as much as you do?” Cas asked.

“I do not think Father likes him much”, the girl conceded. “He has the same sort of thing the doctor here does, with the watery eyes and everything. When he thinks Mother and I are not listening, he calls him 'Citizen Fang'. And Blackie does not like him much either. Mother loves him, and all her female visitors dote on him, which I think he puts up with!”

That was true. Even with no cat actually present, the residual hair had been making my eyes water ever since we had arrived. Mrs. Madeley approached us just then, and the girl reddened slightly at her candour. Fortunately her mother seemed not to have overheard, or was tactful enough to pretend.

“I have completed the list you wanted, Mr. Novak”, she said. “I am sorry it took so long.”

“Accurate information is always worth waiting for”, Cas said. “Thank you.”

He turned to Miss Madeley. 

“I hope to have some news soon”, he said. “I will send you a telegram when that happens, I promise.”

“I believe in you”, she said firmly.

+~+~+

“Why did you ask the question about the cat's eating regimen?” I asked as we waited for the cab to arrive at the house.

“Because there was a small piece of cat food in the corner of the balcony”, Cas said. “Someone took the food out there that day, which means someone wanted the cat to be outside.”

“But the cat goes there anyway!” I objected.

“That is what makes it so interesting”, he smiled.

I glared at him.

III

We had travelled to The Firs from St. John's Wood Road Station, which was on the same line as Baker Street's station. It was only when we passed under the railway that I realized we were not returning that way. We continued on to a small terraced house just beyond where St. John's Wood gave way to the distinctly less salubrious Maida Vale. I looked at Cas in surprise.

“The home of one of the servants”, he said. “A hunch.”

“Your hunches are usually accurate”, I observed. “Which one?”

“The valet, Mr. Thomas Jefferson.”

“Why him?” I asked.

“Because he is the obvious suspect”, Cas said teasingly.

He would be investigating his own murder from beyond the grave if he carried on like this!

+~+~+

The valet was not at home, but we were met by his wife Mrs. Elizabeth Jefferson, who was nursing a small baby. Cas asked her several inconsequential questions (in my opinion), and it seemed that whatever she was using on her child was also provoking a reaction from me, for I found note-taking difficult with my eyes streaming all the time I was there. Cas looked sympathetically at me when we left, and mercifully my torment was over.

“I am sorry about that”, he said. “But at least the case is solved now.”

“Solved?” I asked, stunned. “How?”

“All should become clear tomorrow morning”, he said. “I am expecting a guest at Baker Street. They will most probably bring the cat.”

I stared at him in astonishment, then annoyance as it became clear that I would have to wait. Again.

Damnation!

+~+~+

A nagging thought had been pecking away at the back of my mind since the start of this case, although I had enough wits about me not to voice it. Typically Cas waited until he was on top of me in bed that night, holding me down with ease before he challenged me over it.

“You have been worried about something all day”, he said. “What is it?”

I swallowed nervously. Damnation! I had so hoped he would not notice, and there was no way I could lie to him. Then he breached me with one finger, and I temporarily lost the powers of both speech and coherent thought. This was so not the time, but I had to answer.

“I just thought”, I managed eventually, my eyes watering as he brushed my prostate teasingly, “the case.”

“What about it?” he asked blithely, adding a second finger and starting to scissor me open. I let out the sort of noise usually associated with a walrus in distress.

“The typical happy family”, I said. “Husband, wife and three kids. What with your family the other week..... well.”

He looked at me in clear bemusement, which was a joke as he now had three fingers inside me. That I was still capable of coherent thought was, frankly, amazing.

“Well what?” he asked.

“Don't you ever think that because..... well, us, you missed out on that?” I managed.

He froze, and I felt my whole body go cold. Then he slowly began to move his fingers again, and leaned forward.

“Dean”, he said softly, “I love you more than life itself. The times I was away from you, I was not whole. And I know that if I asked you to go out around London tomorrow wearing your collar, with a cock-ring on and a plug inside of you, you would. Because you love me just as much.”

I should have been shamed by that. Hell, when it came to Cas I was a complete whore, ready to do anything demanded of him. But I had no pride as far as he was concerned.

“Still”, he said, “perhaps if you are not feeling in the mood...”

“Get inside me, you bastard!” I almost snarled. 

And in one swift movement he did, impaling me on that python of his so that I let out another walrus-like moan of ecstatic pleasure. There was no finesse, no tenderness, just Cas driving me straight from alpha to orgasm in the shortest possible time. We came simultaneously, my body falling limp and useless whilst his fell untidily on top of me, smearing my come between us. And for once I did not care; I needed him close to me, to counter the nagging fear that I might lose him in some way, next time forever. I knew now that I could not go on without him if that ever happened. And the last time that I had had that fear, it had eventually proven justified.

IV

I woke next morning feeling refreshed, and realized that Cas must have cleaned me up at some point. He was now spooning me from behind, and knowing how bad a morning person he was, I knew better than to try to wake him. I valued my life!

Some hours later I was sat writing at my table when I felt a familiar watering in my eyes. I looked around in surprise, but there was no-one there. I was about to ask my friend about it when there was a knock at the door.  
   
“Enter!” Cas called out.  
   
A short, sharp-faced beta came into the room, somewhat reluctantly I thought. He appeared to be suffering to an even greater degree from the same streaming eyes that I was, but my attention was drawn not to that, nor to the somewhat bedraggled appearance of his clothing. No, it was the angry hissing coming from the cat-basket he was attempting to hold as far away from his person as possible. Cas smiled.  
   
“Greetings, Mr. Madeley”, he said.  
   
Our guest placed the cat-basket in a corner of the room, then took the fireside seat, still dabbing his eyes. If he was trying to look pitiful to us both, it worked on me. But not, apparently, Cas.  
   
“I hardly know where to start”, my friend said coldly. “Theft. The willful compulsion of a servant to participate in said theft. The emotional distress caused to your own child, and your dear wife. You, sir, are no gentleman!”  
   
“You do not know what it’s like in that house!” the man groaned. “That fanged monster gets everywhere, and it sheds like its life depends on it! My house was no longer my home!”  
   
“That does not excuse your actions”, Cas said firmly. “Were it not for the emotional upheaval that would arise, I would gladly inform your wife of your diabolical behaviour in this matter.”  
   
The man looked horrified.  
   
“You cannot!” he blurted out.  
   
“I can”, Cas said firmly. “However, provided you adhere to certain conditions that I am about to impose – and no, sir, they are not negotiable – then I will accept the restoration of the feline to its rightful owner, your wife.”  
   
The man sniffed mournfully.  
   
“First”, Cas said, “know that when I restore the cat to your daughter, I will be insisting on regular letters as to its well-being. Should the cat meet any more ‘problems’ in its long and happy life at The Firs, I may feel compelled to call round and tell your wife everything.”  
   
“Fine!” the man growled. “Is that it?”  
   
“No”, Cas said. “I know your sort, sir, and you are never happy unless someone is paying for your own mistakes. I shall also be contacting your valet, and assuring him that not only do I not intend to publicize his role in this business – as your servant, he had little choice – but that if you take any punitive action against him, I shall call on your employers and inform them of your thieving tendencies. Do I make myself clear?”  
   
“Perfectly!” the man ground out. “I assume I can leave the wretched thing with you?”  
   
“You may”, Cas said. “I hope for your sake that we shall not meet again. Good day, sir.”  
   
Our visitor sniffed, spared one baleful glare at the cat-basket, and all but fled from the room. I stared at Cas in astonishment.  
   
“How did you know it was him?” I asked. “Or the valet, for that matter?”  
   
“It was obvious”, he said. I swallowed my annoyance.  
   
“Please explain for my future readers”, I managed. And my eyes were watering again. He smiled.  
   
“We were told that the cat did not respond well to strangers”, Cas said, “so only someone he knew could have smuggled him away from the house. Since the master clearly disliked him, that was motive, but Mr. Madeley knew that the cat hated him sufficiently to be able to take him without an almighty fuss. Better to blackmail an unwilling servant into doing it for him. Bringing it here today must have been a special kind of torment, which was why I insisted on it. And we saw the valet has a young child, so money was possibly also offered as an inducement, if not the threat of redundancy.”  
   
“Evil!” I snorted. “No-one should treat servants like that!”  
   
“The valet plants a firework at the front of a house with a slow-burning fuse”, Cas went on. “Some little time before it is due to go off, he moves Blackie's food-dish to the balcony, enticing him there. He has also lightly drugged the food, so the cat will be dozy at the time of the explosion which, as he knows, will temporarily draw everyone to the front of the house. Whilst they are there, he places the cat in a basket and lowers it down to the ground, where there is a flower-bed that hides it. Being off work between eleven and five as he is, he leaves soon after, doubles round the back of the house and collects the basket before taking the cat home.”  
   
“How do you know he took the cat home?” I asked.  
   
“You told me.”  
   
“What?” I exclaimed.  
   
“You had the same reaction in the valet’s house as at The Firs, yet my questioning elicited the fact that they do not have a cat”, Cas explained. “Plus of course the shoes by the door, which were size eight and worn, and which I observed on the way in. Thank you for your help, by the way.”  
   
“Hmm, a portable cat-detector”, I grumbled. “I feel so used!”  
   
He laughed.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Miss Madeley’s reunion with Blackie was a joyous affair, and she presented Cas with the promised drawing, promising to send a second one now she had the real thing back again. Mrs. Madeley thanked us for our help and they left, mercifully taking the eye-watering fur-ball with them. We had just settled back in when there was another knock at the door, and Miss Madeley put her head around it. We both looked at her in surprise.  
   
“Mother is in the cab”, she said, “and I told her I just wanted to say thank-you again. For everything.”  
   
“Of course”, Cas smiled.  
   
She hesitated before speaking again.  
   
“Including Father”, she said with a knowing look, before backing away and disappearing off down the stairs. Cas chuckled.  
   
An intelligent young lady”, he said. “It was a pleasure doing business with her.”  
   
He placed the picture carefully in his writing-desk, and one week later, it was hanging on the wall, properly framed. Black Peter of Novgorod, safely returned home.

+~+~+

One week later, Cas presented Mr. Singer and Mrs. Harvelle with a new cat, a young tawny-brown kitten of a thing. He later told me it was a British Shorthair, one of the few breeds that shed relatively little. I loved him even more for that.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would concern a certain canary-trainer, and a descent into Purgatory. And my fears of losing Cas again would threaten to come true...


	14. Case 81: Abandon All Hope (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as the case of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer'.

I

That summer of the 'Ninety-Five, I had a new book out featuring a collection of Cas’ cases, and (very reluctantly) I had bowed to pressure from my erstwhile publishers Brett, Burke and Hardwicke to attend two book-signing sessions at Hatchard’s in Piccadilly. Frankly I hated the publicity, but I felt I owed my publishers something for letting me bring Cas’ fame to a wider audience, his books now selling well across the Empire. Though when they suggested a book tour around the British Isles, I very firmly put my foot down.  
   
I mention this because of a small incident that arose from the first of the two signings. My audience (mostly female for reasons that, I blush to admit, escaped me at the time) were lined up with their books to be signed, and all went well until one of the ladies asked me a question:  
   
“Those little eccentricities of his”, she whispered. “The staring, the pipe, the head-tilting – does it not drive you mad?”  
   
I looked at her in surprise.  
   
“Of course not!” I almost snapped. “That’s just who he is. Cas without all those things just wouldn’t be Cas!”  
   
She stared at me in utter incredulity. What on earth had I gone and said?  
   
“You called him Cas”, she whispered, as if I had just revealed to her the location of the Holy Grail. “You never call him Cas in your books!”

This was true. In my original stories, published mostly for a Victorian audience, the idea of using someone's short-form name would have seemed openly disrespectful. And I had been extremely careful in my previous stories to make sure everyone viewed our relationship as just two alpha friends who lived together. Yet the looks I was getting from the ladies in the queue suggested that they had either seen through that subterfuge, or that they wished us closer than I had stated. If only they knew; Cas and I could not get any closer!

It was the heat from those huge shop lights that was making me blush. Yes it was!  
   
+~+~+  
   
The conversation stuck in my memory like a burr, and I found it difficult to shake it off. It was still there two days later when Cas did something that was rather odd, even for him.  
   
The summer of that year was warm but with a pleasant cooling breeze, and I had taken the whole of that week off as my signing (ordeal) had been on a Monday. Cas had been gazing out of the window for some little time when he suddenly strode across to the pile of old newspapers we kept for the fire, picked one up and laid it flat on the table, and wrote several words on it in his fountain-pen before striding back to the window and taping the paper to it. I stared in astonishment.  
   
“Doubtless you think me mad, doctor”, he said with a chuckle, “but that man opposite has been staring at this house for over half an hour, and has twice started across the road only to draw back. He may be a potential client, but only if we can actually get him through the door!”  
   
“Ah”, I said. “You wrote him a note telling him to come in.”  
   
“Oh doctor, your detective powers amaze me!” he said, holding his arm melodramatically to his head as if about to swoon. I looked around, but unfortunately there was nothing at hand to throw at him, so I settled for a scowl. He sniggered at me, which did not help matters.  
   
Sure enough, some few moments later there was the distinctive sound of Mrs. Singer opening the door. She had finally married Mr. Singer at the start of the month, and as well as the new cat – which, to my (and my eyes') joy, indeed did not shed - Cas had presented them with a week’s honeymoon in Torquay, since she loved the English Riviera. She gave our new visitor a sharp look – he had obviously done his best, but he was clearly very dirty – before announcing him as ‘Mr. James Banks’, with a look that made it clear what would happen if he made a mess. The man swallowed nervously.  
   
“Pray take a seat, Mr. Banks”, Cas said. “I appreciate that this is not your usual environment, but there are fewer dangers here than the years that you have obviously spent underground.”  
   
The man visibly balked.  
   
“Sir!” he gasped.  
   
“Come, come”, Cas said gently. “The ingrained dirt could come from any labouring post, but the slight stoop and the rasped breathing point to time spent underground. Yet it is less than might be expected for a man of your age, so you have not been there of late.”  
   
“The man nodded, then hesitated.  
   
“You would not be here today if you did not think there was a chance of me taking your case”, Cas pressed. “Relax. You have got as far as the famous fireside chair, which considering the long time you dallied outside is quite an achievement. At least let us know the reason for your visit.”  
   
The man seemed to sag, but finally spoke.  
   
“I know you take on all sorts of cases, sirs”, he said (I felt a warm feeling at the plural), “but this is…. difficult. I fear for my son, and I think he may die in the coming year.”  
   
He ground to a halt and looked at us almost pleadingly. Cas sighed. It was going to be one of Those Interviews.  
   
“Your son is a miner?” he asked.  
   
“Yes…. no…. at least not yet….”  
   
It was akin to pulling teeth. Cas suddenly leaned forward and lifted the man’s down-turned face, staring straight into his eyes.  
   
“The facts, sir”, he said in a commanding voice. “All the facts. Starting with where you work, please.”  
   
“At the Purgatory Colliery near Reculver, in Kent, sir”, he said. “I’m a mining engineer.”  
   
“You think your son may be in danger”, Cas mused. “You work in a field of logic, so what has led you to that conclusion?”  
   
“I want Jimmy to become an engineer above ground”, the man said. “But he insists on doing six months down the mines first before he’ll try anything else.”

I noticed Cas wince slightly at the name of his lost twin, and sought quickly to move the conversation onwards.  
   
“Do you not think the experience alone would deter him?” I asked.  
   
Our guest shook his head.  
   
“He is very determined”, he said. “He made me promise that if he could stick it out, I would let him work towards being an engineer. But sirs…. I am scared.”  
   
Cas poured the man a large whisky, and gave it to him, watching as he downed it on one gulp. He waited until the man had finished before speaking.  
   
“You, sir, are an engineer”, he said patiently. “If you have some knowledge as to something that threatens your son’s life, then say so, and say it now.”  
   
“Mr. Jeremiah Wilson!”

II  
   
We both stared at him, but the effort the man had visibly made to get that name out seemed to have drained him. Cas poured him another whisky, and he sipped it this time.  
   
“Who is this 'Mr. Jeremiah Wilson'?” Cas asked.  
   
“Until two months ago, the mine was owned by Lord Falconhurst”, our guest said. “I won’t say he was a good employer; harsh but fair was his style. He drove a hard deal with the union, but once it was agreed, he stuck to it. He sold a half-share in the mine two months back, and things in Purgatory have been living up to its name ever since.”

“How so?” Cas asked.

“Mr. Wilson made his fortune bringing back rare birds from foreign parts”, our guest said, “and selling them to zoos and rich folks. The only ones he kept were regular canaries; he sold some to the mine, and that was how he got linked to us.”  
   
“Why did Lord Falconhurst sell to him?” I asked. “Was he in financial difficulties?”  
   
“Not such as you mean, sir”, our guest said. “Two months ago we found a rich new seam that stretches out under where the North Sea meets Old Father Thames. These undersea seams are tricky however, and expensive to mine. Mr. Wilson was brought in to provide that money.”  
   
“But things have been going wrong since he arrived on the scene”, Cas said. “Exactly what things, pray?”  
   
“The week after he came to look at the workings, seven of the men collapsed due to fumes, and had to be carried out”, our guest said. “And last month the same thing happened again, and we nearly lost two men due to poisoning.”  
   
“Surely the canaries would have died first?” I asked. “That is what they are for, is it not?”  
   
Our guest nodded.  
   
“I do not understand why”, he said, frowning. “Mr. Wilson claims it may be a new type of gas, one that the birds are somehow immune to. He tried a different breed of canary afterwards, and that seemed to work when they stopped for a leak only last week.”  
   
Cas sat back and surveyed our guest, who flinched under his examination.  
   
“You have a hunch”, Cas said. “Whatever the scientific explanation is for those things, something here strikes you as wrong, and it centres on Mr. Jeremiah Wilson. When does your son start down the mine?”  
   
“Three weeks’ time, sir.”  
   
“Then we must solve this case in three weeks”, Cas said. “I have an idea where the correct solution may be, but proving it will be another matter entirely. If you leave your address with the good doctor, we will send you a telegram should there be any developments.”  
   
“You will take the case?” the man said, looking almost incredulous.  
   
“Your son’s life may be in danger”, Cas said. “Yes, I will take the case. It may even involve a trip to the Garden of England itself, and a descent into the depths of Purgatory!”  
   
+~+~+

I fully expected Cas to ask me to accompany him to Kent within the next few days, but to my surprise he spent the following week mostly at the library, researching something. In a way it was fortunate; one of the surgery's most important clients was expecting her first grandchild, and her daughter seemed to be set on achieving an elephantine pregnancy, now some way into its tenth month. I could not leave the capital until her child made its belated entrance into the world, and it was annoying.

Also annoying was the arrival of Cas' brother Balthazar one morning, even if he did bring some information that my friend had requested. I fully expected him to mention my recent feline problems with Black Peter, but Cas must not have said anything to him about them. 

“What did you want to find out from Balthazar?” I asked after the lounge-lizard had thankfully departed.

“Mr. Jeremiah Wilson's recent travel arrangements”, he said. “I wished to know which countries he had visited in pursuit of his avian collection. I was particularly interested to find he went to central southern Africa, or Rhodesia as it has now become.”

“Why there?” I asked.

“Because that was where I hoped he would have gone”, he said. 

We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of a telegram. I read it, and sighed in relief.

“Mrs. Broadhurst's baby has finally decided to it is ready to grace the world with its presence!” I announced. “And only three and a half weeks late. I must go at once.”

“I shall not go down to Kent until you are returned, then”, he said.

+~+~+

Unfortunately, this turned out to be easier said than done. Having waited three weeks longer than usual, the new Master Broadhurst made a most difficult entrance into the world, not helped by his being nearly nine pounds when eventually weighed. His mother lost a lot of blood in the process, and I felt compelled to remain at the hospital, or at least on call, until she was out of danger. Fortunately the baby itself was fine, and his grandmother was pleased with my prompt attendance, but again I could not leave London, whilst Cas' three weeks were approaching their end. 

It was all exceedingly vexing. Even as a doctor, there was little I could actually do except that my presence reassured the patient, who just needed copious amounts of both time and rest to recover from her ordeal. 

It was a Friday when we received a telegram from Mr. Banks, reminding us that his son was due to start down the mine the following Tuesday. That same day Mrs. Broadhurst suffered a fall when she tried to walk a short distance from her hospital bed, and I informed her mother, Lady Mason, that she would do better in her own home if she could be guaranteed complete bed-rest. She was moved to her home on Saturday, and I spent most of Sunday with her.

“I shall have to go down to Kent tomorrow”, Cas told me that day. “I have my suspicions, and if I can check something down there, I should be able to complete the case.”

“What time do you leave?” I asked. “I have promised to call in on Lady Mason-Kennett tomorrow and travel with her to see her daughter, but if all is well I can travel on with you.”

“And if it is not, young Mr. Banks will go down the mine the next day”, Cas said with a sigh. “We cannot risk it. I shall take the late morning train from Victoria, and since your patient resides in Aldwych, you can take a train from Charing Cross if she only needs you for a short time. If I get out at Sturry and you at Herne Bay, you may even beat me there. But we must go tomorrow, or at least I must.

Looking back, that was the moment when I had a definite sense of foreboding about the whole case. One which was to prove all too justified, and one which, thank the Lord, led to me waiting until Cas had gone to bed that night before quietly packing my revolver into my doctor's bag.

+~+~+

I was not lucky the next day. Lady Mason-Kennett kept me waiting at her house for what seemed like an eternity, and when we finally reached her daughter's house, the silly woman had strained herself trying to walk again. I threatened her with a return to hospital and that she might even endanger her chance of any future children (mostly untrue, but sometimes doctors have to lie to drive the message home). I also called in briefly on young Master Broadhurst, who was showing a lot more sense than either of his relatives and sleeping soundly. Smart boy.

My chances of making it to Reculver before Cas disappeared completely when heavy London traffic meant that I missed the Thanet train by ten minutes. Fortunately – my one break of the day – there was a Dover train in half an hour, which meant I could take a cab from Canterbury. Expensive, but I had a growing feeling of unease about allowing Cas to start out alone, and I would not be happy until I caught him up. 

I had always marvelled at the technology that brought us the steam railway locomotive, but my journey that day seemed painfully slow, as we crawled out of London and into the Garden of England. Greenwich, Dartford, Gravesend, Chatham, Sittingbourne, Faversham, then an annoying wait for a signal in the middle of precisely nowhere – it seemed like an eternity before the train finally groaned to a halt in the London, Chatham and Dover Railway's Canterbury Station. I all but sprinted off the platform to get to a cab first, and the ten miles or so it was to the mine.

I arrived at my destination, and finally, my first real piece of good luck that day! Mr. James Banks, who I recognized from a photograph supplied to us by his father, was smoking a cigarette outside the main building, and looked up in surprise at my arrival. I paid the cabbie and hurried over to him.

“Where is Cas?” I asked urgently.

“He's gone to examine the bird-cages”, the man said, clearly surprised by my haste. “Is something wrong?”

“Take me to him!” I ordered. I probably had no right to order him about in this way, but I was past caring. Every instinct in me was telling me that something was terribly wrong – and when two men emerged coughing from the mine, that instinct became certainty.

“Cas!” I yelled, and started towards where the men had emerged from. Mr. Banks reached out to try to stop me, but I wrenched myself free.

III

“Doctor, there's gas down there!” he yelled. “It's dangerous!”

Although nothing was going to stop me, I had just about enough sense left to take out a handkerchief and hold it to my mouth. Thankfully the storage cages lay just inside the mine-entrance from which more men were now staggering. And next to the cage, a familiar long-coated figure lay slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Cas!” I yelled again, and dropped the handkerchief to grab for him. At once I could feel the noxious fumes, though mercifully faint as I was still within sight of the entrance. Less mercifully, my friend was a dead weight. 

I was about to try to pick him up when I heard something move behind me. I should have assumed it was one of the men escaping from the mine, but some inner instinct warned me otherwise, and I moved quickly to one side. Just as well, as a blow from some heavy object glanced off my arm, clearly aimed at my head. I let Cas fall, much as it hurt me to do, and spun round. A man with manic eyes wielding a large iron bar was glaring at me, and was clearly preparing to finish me off. I did not hesitate, but pulled my gun from my pocket and shot him at nearly point blank range. He stared at me in shock for what seemed like an eternity, and I emptied my gun into him as he crumpled to the floor.

“Hrhr.”

The sound of my friend's voice brought me back to reality, and I realized we were both still in a mine which was leaking poisonous fumes, which could kill us if I did not get my act together. I hoisted Cas' thin frame – the man never ate enough, and for once I was glad of it – then gripped him tight and made my way out of the mine, my eyes streaming and my throat aching, but happy in my heart.

My friend was safe.

+~+~+

The thirty-one and a half minutes that it took Cas to regain full consciousness was one of the longest periods of my life, even though I was distracted by helping care for the other men who had come up. By the Grace of God there were no fatalities, except for the man I had shot who, as I had guessed, turned out to be Mr. Jeremiah Wilson. Explanations for his actions would have to wait for my friend's recovery, as would everything else.

Cas finally came round, and I could hardly contain my relief. He was his usual adorably confused self, just like he was most mornings before his first cup of coffee, and I had to tell him everything that had happened. The only other casualty, I found out, had been his long-coat; apparently I had cut myself whilst rushing into the mine, and there was a stained bloody hand-print in the shoulder from where I had first grabbed him. I had not even noticed the blood loss.

“I am sorry”, I said. “I am sure it will wash out.”

He laughed, then coughed at the effort.

“I have you to thank for my life”, he said, his eyes seeming even bluer than usual. “You dragged me out of Purgatory. Thank you.”

“All part of the service”, I said dismissively, feeling a little embarrassed by his praise. His grip on my arm suddenly tightened.

“I mean it”, he said. “Those books of yours do you a disservice, Dean. I am nothing without you.”

Damnation, I was going to have an Emotional Moment!

“When you feel well enough, Lord Falconhurst is here”, I said, desperate to change the subject. “He has closed the mine, but I suppose he would welcome an explanation as to why I just killed his business partner inside it.”

“Shot in self-defence”, Cas said firmly. “You are not a killer, Dean. You never could be. Yes, I feel better now. If you could get Mr. Banks, then get me a drink of water, I will attend them both shortly.”

I smiled at him, and went to do his bidding.

+~+~+

The four of us were sat in Mr. Banks' small office. Lord Falconhurst was younger than I had expected, a pale blond man in his late thirties, who seemed bewildered at the dramatic turn of events.

“What I want to know”, Mr. Banks said, “is why those damned birds did not sing. That's what canaries do, for Heaven's sake!”

Cas sipped his water.

“That is indeed true”, he said. “Except that the birds in those cages are not canaries.”

“What do you mean?” Lord Falconhurst asked. Cas turned to him.

“When Mr. Wilson heard about the new seam, he knew from his own experience that there was a risk of poison gas pockets, especially for a mine stretching out under the sea”, he said. “Amongst his many travels prior to becoming your partner was a trip out to what is now Rhodesia, in Africa. In the heart of the Dark Continent there are doubtless many strange species still yet to be discovered, but one of the ones he brought back from there is the set of creatures in those cages in your mine, sir. And they are definitely not canaries.”

“What are they, then?” the nobleman asked.

“The native word is ulumbagu, which translates loosely as 'swamp-callers'” Cas said. “Nature has endowed these birds with the ability to survive even in the noxious air surrounding what we in the developed world call, rather pathetically in my opinion, hot springs. Like canaries, they can sing, but their songs are designed to mimic the sounds of certain insects that they prey on. Their victims approach, thinking to find a mate, then fall victim to the noxious gases and get snapped up by the birds. Fortunately for Mr. Wilson, the swamp-callers are not fussy eaters, so they can survive on a diet of British insects.”

“I do not see it”, the nobleman said.

“When your men accidentally opened up a new seam and exposed a pocket of poison gas, a normal canary would detect it first and stop singing, and die soon after”, Cas explained. “A swamp-caller, on the other hand, would simply carry on singing. As your bird supplier, he would change to normal canaries occasionally, so you might just think yourself unlucky. It was his good fortune that the birds resemble canaries, but according to the research I carried out at my local library, there are seventeen small but notable differences between the species.”

He turned to me, and looked almost apologetic.

“I assumed you had been held back for the whole day, so decided to check the birds for myself”, he said, looking almost as if he thought I would reprimand him for such an action. “I could not know that Mr. Wilson himself happened to be testing birds further into the mine. Presumably he came back and worked out what I was doing, and struck me from behind.”

“The bastard!” I said fervently. “I am glad I shot him!”

“Your new seam should be able to be safely developed, provided you use canaries this time”, Cas told Lord Falconhurst. “Though perhaps a more rigorous examination of future business partners may be in order.”

The nobleman blushed at the gentle reprimand. 

IV

We had to wait for the local policeman to come and take my statement, but fortunately Mr. Banks had witnessed the whole thing, and the constable was sure that there would be no difficulties. Cas and I were able to travel back, he insisting on paying for my ticket to go with him despite the fact I had a return on the Chatham Line. I did not need much persuading, especially as I still felt angry at myself for letting him get into danger like this.

I do not know why, but it was not until we safely back in the sanctuary of Baker Street that it truly hit me. I had nearly lost Cas. Again. I let out a guttural cry and sank to the couch, curling up into myself.

“Dean”, he said anxiously. “What is it?”

I turned an agonized face up to him.

“I nearly lost you again!” I bit out, not knowing whether to be angry with him or hug him. “I can't....”

I curled back into myself, trying not to cry. Alphas did not cry. I felt him sit down next to me on the couch, and lay a gentle hand on the side of my head.

“Dean”, he said gently, “this is my life... our lives. You know that the prospect of my making old bones has never been good....”

I let out a sob at that. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I was past caring. 

“I need you!” I said, almost bitterly. “Need you inside me, Cas. Now.”

He hesitated only briefly before gently helping me to my feet and across the room to his door. The gentle, almost tender way he undressed me was a further overload to my strained emotions, and I sniffed as he removed my clothing.

“I want you to undress me as well”, he said, helping me back up off the bed and standing before me. I nodded dumbly, and set to work, although his gentle running of a finger around my chin nearly broke me again. I loved this man so much, and once again the Fates had nearly taken him from me.

Finally I was done, and he guided me gently back onto his bed, He was often tender in our couplings, but I do not think I had ever known him this gentle, almost as if he was afraid he would break me. Part of me wanted him to take me fast and rough, but this slow and sensual lovemaking was wonderful in its way, and I relaxed into the bed, barely even feeling it as he gently eased me open. I even almost missed feeling him enter me, so blissed-out by his careful touches. This was not our usual race to orgasm or even the frantic coupling whilst denying ourselves that release; this was something deeper and, in a strange way, more erotic. 

He was finally fully in, and leaned forward to gently place his chest against mine, whilst entwining our legs. I felt the last vestiges of stress leaving me, and the last thing I could remember was his kissing me gently and promising that he would never leave me. 

+~+~+

It took me some time to notice Mrs. Singer's knowing smirk when she brought up breakfast the following morning, and only when I looked in the mirror later on did I see it. A love-bite the size of Cornwall, way above my collar! The bastard!

+~+~+

In our next case, a dead man stands at a railway station, an unwelcome face from the past re-appears, the steamer Friesland vanishes - and the insufferable Mr. Balthazar Novak goes that one step too far........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My week off means that final polishing for the remaining chapters is done, and they will continue to be published at the rate of two a day (introductions excepted) until done.


End file.
